


The Man Who Lived

by sebastianL (felix_atticus)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Enemies to Friends, First Person, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Original Characters - Freeform, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 42
Words: 253,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9167785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/sebastianL
Summary: Draco breaks a cup, and one thing leads to another. A story of redemption, tattoos, dreams, mistakes, green eyes, long conversations, and copious amounts of coffee.Set in New York twelve years after the war.





	1. Part One: Evan

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I will put all the warnings up front, and from there you lovely people are on your own. There will be no warnings for specific chapters that contain sensitive materials. Doing so would interrupt the flow of the story--I don't believe in spoilers. So if you feel that you will be unduly uncomfortable with any of the things I list below, I would highly suggest not reading this particular story. After all, there's an endless number of stories in this particular fandom that cater to all different tastes, and this one will certainly not be for everyone.  
> This is, like my other stories, an unruly beast filled with original characters in an original setting. It's a slow burn that's more interested in character development than smut--not that it's smut free, but we're looking at 250k+ here, so if you're looking for pure carnal pleasure, this is not going to be the place for you.  
> This story touches on a lot of topics that are going to be sensitive for a lot of people. There's racism, homophobia, suicide and self harm, and mental illness (for those who've read my stories before, I know you'd be more shocked if I wrote something fluffy). There are some homophobic and racial epithets used, but I don't feel gratuitously so.  
> That being said, it's also a story with (I think) a big heart, a snarky sense of humour, and yes, it is about love.  
> This story is in two parts, with an epilogue. There will be a three day intermission between the two parts. I think the chapter count is in the low 40s, but I keep losing track around 38, so the chapter count will be updated once I have more of a handle on what the specific number is.  
> Other than that, I'm just going to set you loose on this story, and I hope you enjoy.

There’s a crack outside my open window that sounds like someone disapparating and I startle and I drop my coffee.

            The cup shatters.

            I jump back, bare feet and the bottoms of my new jeans splattered with steaming hot coffee, not to mention shards of ceramic and _this_ is how the day is going to start.

            I stand still a moment. My heart stops pounding so hard, enough that I can stalk over to the window and try to figure out if there’s a human I can direct my anger at for this utter nonsense.

            It doesn’t take long to find the imbeciles responsible for this travesty. Across the street are warring factions. A man a few years younger than me, his bicycle lying on the road with a bent wheel, and he’s screaming at three Satmars who are screaming back with equal volume.

            My hands curl around the lower window sill, and I glare at them from the window of my third story walk up, and strangely enough this has no effect on them whatsoever. So I slam the window shut.

            It’s my own fault for opening it. I should have known better. I just wanted to get some fresh air in the apartment. The weather is smothering hot, already this early in the summer, and it’s making irritable people even more so. I recognize that. I can accept that.

            What I simply can’t accept is the loss of my coffee.

            It was the last in the bag. A teaspoon, maybe, that I put in a filter over the cup because I was that determined to get my money’s worth. Now it is all over my floor.

            And my _trousers_ , for fuck’s sake—

            Hands on the backs of my hips, I take in the ruined state of the things. That will certainly teach me to buy green jeans in the future. Shan’t repeat that error.

            I close my eyes against the sound of arguing drifting across the street, through the closed windows. To do something about that entire situation—tempting. Incredibly tempting. But it always is, and I know the danger of that, don’t I.

            Picking up the bin, I crouch next to the pool of precious spilled liquid, and start the careful task of picking up the larger pieces of the broken cup off the linoleum. It was my reusable one and everything, with the silicone lid. Mermaid on the side, though far more attractive than the real thing. The thought of that always made me smile when I saw the cup, or smile to myself, I suppose.

            Broken now.

            The old vicious voice whispers _, muggles_.

            I straighten, looking at the fridge with furrowed brows. “None of that,” I tell the voice. It retreats immediately, knowing not to dare.

            Just for that, I’m not cleaning up the mess with my wand. No, cloth and broom it is. That’s what I get for letting the old thoughts in.

            Fucking _splendid_ start to this day.

 

It takes fifteen minutes to get everything cleaned up, to be sure that I’m not going to accidentally step on some piece of broken coffee cup in the middle of the night. I’m particular about cleaning things. I had to be a bloody adult before I learned how to do it, but I grew up surrounded by everything neat and tidy and in its place, and that’s how it _will_ be, no matter what.

            The jeans are a write off. I leave them to soak in the sink anyways, because hope springs eternal, and now I have to pick a whole new outfit.

            This would be so much easier to deal with if there was coffee.

            _I’ll have to stop at Transcend_ , I think, shucking my Wolf Parade t-shirt and pulling on a sleeveless white t-shirt instead. Yes, I shall do. If I don’t get some caffeine in my body, God only knows what I’ll be like by the time I get to work. I’ll have lost my patience six times over no matter what having gone to Samatchin, and Jason will probably sack me no matter our history if I show up to work without the proper enervants.

            On with the same old grey jeans that I have to squirm into, even skinny as I am. I do love that about these trousers, even if I irritate myself by wearing them so frequently. I love how they cling, how it’s like wearing a second skin. I attach the black suspenders, pulling them up over my shoulders. They fall into place with a snap.

            _Samatchin Street_ , I remember, and scowl.

            Enough. I’ve already lost enough time.

            I duck into the bathroom, smacking the light on, then bend over the sink, having a close look in the mirror. Yes—that is the gaze of an uncaffeinated man deeply displeased by his lot in life. Blowing out my breath, I blink my eyes a few times, then mess about with my hair.

            Getting long again. I have to admit, I do like it like this. It’s shaved to the scalp on the back and sides, but it’s left quite long on top, near to reaching my chin when I pull it over to the side, wavy some days and going outright curly when the humidity is high. I always do pull it over, to the right, so that it covers the scar, the most obvious one. Not obvious at all if it’s covered.

            All right, I’ve three hours to get coffee—I’m sure as Christ not picking it up on Samatchin, who knows what would actually be in it—and deal with the ridiculous bureaucracy of Oddwin’s, and still have time to get to work—

            My phone rings.

            I actually see my face draw down in a scowl before I turn to go find the phone. It is just after eight in the morning on a Friday. No one is calling me unless something terrible has happened.

            I can deal with it. The worst has already happened. I’m without coffee.

            The phone is on my bedside next to my wand. Call display says it’s Derrell. I sigh, bracing myself. Which one of my boys is it this time? I answer, saying dryly, “I’ve not had coffee yet, so whatever happens next is your own fault.”

            There’s a little pause, and I get that sick scary feeling in the pit of my stomach where I know it’s serious, serious like someone has died or been hurt, because I’ve known him long enough and I know how he is, I know him enough to know his silences.

            He says, “I’ll take that into consideration,” but without any humour in his voice.

            “Which one?” I say bluntly. “Which one of them?”

            “No, no it’s not like that—“

            “Oh yes, you only ever use that tone when everything is _fine_ , so which of them, which one of the boys?”

            “It’s not one of yours, it’s—listen, I was wondering if you could do me a favour.”

            I stop. Just to be absolutely certain, I say, “So it has nothing to do with my boys.”

            “No, Draco.”

            I relax, picking up my wand and spinning it around my fingers. “Then what can I do for you?”

            “I need a favour.”

            “Yes, you already said that bit.” I walk into the hall. Left the light on in the bathroom.

            “It’s kind of a big one.”

            Stepping into the room, I turn to look in the mirror at the latest addition to my sleeves. A yellow narcissus blooms in that space where back isn’t quite shoulder and shoulder isn’t quite back. I’ve filled up my arms, so now I’ll have to move to other surfaces.

            “Well,” I say, eyes tracing the subtle shading and vibrant colours, “I’d say I probably owe you a couple of those.”

            “Come on. You’ve paid me back way more times than I ever—“

            I stop admiring myself and turn off the light. “I beg to differ. What is this favour?”

            I head across the living room towards the door. Fifteen minutes, maybe, at Transcend, then a half hour walk to the never ending freak show, and fingers crossed less than two hours dealing with that. Still preferable to showing up on a Saturday, though.

            “Do you think Jason would let you come into work late?”

            That draws me up short. “I beg your pardon.”

            A long sigh from his end, and this is becoming peculiar. “What kind of contract written in blood would I have to sign to get you to come see me?”

            “Now?” I say incredulously.

            “Yeah.”

            “You—want me come to you. I’m already leaving work early today to come up there, and you’re telling me you would like me to come all the way from Williamsburg to you, come back to work, then be back in the Bronx for four? Is that the sum of what you’re telling me?”

            “Draco, you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t—“

            “I know you wouldn’t.”

            I put my hand over my eyes, thinking about it. It isn’t like the commute bothers me—I have to complain about it because it would be a hassle for a normal person. I, however, am distinctly abnormal, and have no problem being in Williamsburg one second and the South Bronx the next.

            The issue is whatever he has going on up there, it will leave me with no time for the high street. Which means I’ll have to go back tomorrow. On a Saturday. When it’s busiest.

            Won’t that just be a treat.

            “You know if they could pay you more—“

            “Oh, do shut up. I’ll be there as soon as I’m able.”

            “Good to know Jason will hate me even more.”

            With a roll of the eyes, I step into my boots. Black, leather, zippers up the sides. “I think you fixed that for yourself when you broke up with him. Talk to you soon.”

            “Thanks, Draco.”

            “Hmm,” I mutter, and hang up.

            I stuff the phone in my left front pocket, and get a twenty from my wallet. That goes in my front right pocket, same as always. I stick my wallet into my back pocket, and grab my keys off the wall. Last thing is my wand into the inside of my boot. Not like I’ll need it today, but I’ve simply got a feeling.

            Samatchin Street on a Saturday. I do have quite a lot of bad karma to work off, but a man needs limitations.

 

This is why I make my own coffee. This is why I should have bloody known better and picked up more yesterday on the way home. I’m usually so good about things like errands that my frustration is out of proportion. I know this. Of course I do. It’s just a simple thing that can be fixed.

            “I asked for quarter sweet.”

            People, however, cannot be fixed.

            I’m pressed up against the rest of the rabble, arms wrapped tightly around myself. After a ten minute wait, I know my drink is next. Right after this pint sized woman with pink hair whose exposed armpits would explain the smell.

            “You watched how much I put in,” the barista says. It’s the truth—she was bent over the counter like a hawk while he did it, watching his every move. He looks exhausted, even though it’s only 8:30, but with this crowd I can’t say I blame him.

            She pushes the cup back towards him. “It’s too sweet.”

            I feel the crowd depress around me, shifting with exasperation. I know this is the definition of a first world problem, but I’ll be a better person about things in approximately five minutes.

            The barista puts on a tight smile. “I’ll make it again.”

            “Quarter sweet,” she repeats.

            And I don’t know, there’s just something about her tone that reminds me of someone, or someones, and while that poor bastard makes her drink over again, I say, “Madam, I must commend you.”

            She turns around. My age, so she’s old enough to know better. “What?”

            “I must say, I have met some genuine sadists in my time—in fact, it’s a trait that runs in the family—so I feel quite secure in pointing you out as a particularly terrible specimen. It takes a truly petty individual to rake someone who makes minimum wage over the coals while inviting the ire and disdain of every single person around her.” I lift my hands and give three sardonic claps. “Congratulations on being the living definition of entitled and miserable.”

            She turns bright red, and I just stare at her, calm and steady as usual. I inherited my parents’ composure, one of their better traits.

            “Quarter sweet,” the barista says, putting another cup on the bar, and the pink haired woman grabs it and scampers out without another word said. I step up to the counter, crossing my arms on it. He looks at me with a combination of awe and exhaustion. “Anything you want is on me for the next month. Or year.”

            As he makes my drink, I shrug. “I can’t abide pettiness. In other people, at least. It’s perfectly acceptable when it comes from me.” I yawn, pushing my hair back.

            My order is simple enough, and he pushes it across the bar to me. “Latte, triple shot. For my hero.”

            He catches my eye, and I realize he’s quite nice looking. God, I am out of it. The corner of my mouth lifts slightly before I push it back down, taking my drink. “Suppose that makes you the damsel in distress, then.”

            He grins, and I walk away, slipping through the crowd, feeling a bit better about life. A flirt and plenty of caffeine in hand. This morning might be looking up. Lifting the cup to my mouth, I take a sip as I step through the door.

            I’m near tripped off my feet by one body, and then slammed into the glass wall by another. Automatically, my arm goes out, hand clenching around the cup, steaming hot milk and espresso jumping into the air.

            I look up, murderous, at the boys who have just plowed into me. They’re still running, trying to catch their bus. The one in back glances back at me. It’s that creepy little shit who lives next door. The one who looks too long without blinking. He turns and keeps running.

            I don’t say a thing, because I think that if I did, it would be me threatening to kill several eight year olds, and that kind of thing could be used against me in court.

            The crumpled cup falls out of my hand, and I hold out my burned, wet hand. I look at it, then say loudly, “Unbelievable!” I don’t know what else to do. I know what I’d _like_ to do, but that’s not an option, so I settle for repeating myself. “Unbelievable.”

            I can feel eyes on me. Turning, I find that Mrs. E is watching me, leaning against a mailbox. One more thing I don’t need. That old ghoul in her hippie clothing, pretending like she knows everything.

            “That happened for a reason,” she says smugly.

            “Quite,” I grind out, turning to storm away.

 

I apparate onto the top of the school, scaring the life out of some pigeons, then make my way down through the service entrance.

            I’ve fixed the burn on my hand. It wasn’t terrible. Just red and sore. But of course today is going to be wretched. Just the lead up to tomorrow. At this point, I don’t even want to fathom what horrors the universe intends to throw at me on Saturday.

            I walk down the staircases, through the flood of teenagers flocking upwards. I ignore their gazes. They’ve seen me enough. Anyways, I’m used to being looked at. It’s just a thing people do, no matter how I wish they wouldn’t.

            “Dre!”

            Pausing, my hand on the railing, I look back over my shoulder. Zion’s looking at me, worry all across his brow. What’s he done? “Yes, young man?”

            “Whatcha doing here?”

            “What do you think? Looking in on you.” He looks a little queasy at that. I can see his maths textbook clutched in his hand. He’s fifteen, but he’s as tall as I am and heavier, with massive hands. Right now, he looks like the child that he is. I take pity on him, as much as I’m able. “Studied last night?”

            Frowning, he nods once.

            “Then what are you worried about?” I keep walking, lifting a hand. “I’ll see you after school.”

            I make it to the main floor, just waving instead of stopping when teachers call my name. I need to see Derrell and get back to Williamsburg. I’ll go into work early. I know for damned sure that we have coffee there.

            Reaching the principal’s office, I wave to Stacy. “In his office?”

            “He’s expecting you, Mr. Malloy,” she says, pointing at the closed door while dealing with a student.

            I tap on the door, and step inside. Derrell sits behind his desk, on the phone. He smiles weakly at me, lifting an index finger.

            Ah ha. There is a paper cup in front of him. I snatch it up, taking a seat in front of the desk. Slouching, I prop my ankle on my knee, looking around as I take a sip.

            About what you would expect of an overworked, underpaid educator in a school system where no one expects much. The walls are filled with inspirational posters and pictures of Derrell with students spanning back ten years, even though he’s only been principal for three. Behind him are dented file cabinets, and shelves upon shelves of books about teaching.

            Wait.

            I can taste it. The son of a bitch.

            Derrell says, “Okay—okay, bye now.” He hangs up, then sits back, sighing with relief. “Hey.”

            I point to the cup. “This is decaf. What’s the fucking point?”

            He reaches out, and I lean forward to give him the cup back, my lip curled with disgust. “You’ll be shocked to learn this, Draco, but my blood pressure has apparently reached unacceptable levels.”

            “Your doctor boyfriend tell you that?”

            He rolls his eyes. “Please stop calling him that.”

            “I would if he didn’t preface every single sentence with, ‘As a doctor, I—.’ I swear to God, he does that tomorrow night, he’s not allowed to come play with the grownups anymore.”

            “Grownups,” Derrell says. “Take a good look at yourself.”

            I smirk. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve got under those clothes.”

            He just snorts. It’s not like he and I have ever had sex—lord no. Not that he isn’t lovely, because he is. But it would be like fucking my brother. If my brother were a slim black man with hair that’s going increasingly grey. All I meant by the clothes comment is his tattoos. Mine are visible. He keeps his hidden away.

            Sitting back, Derrell says, “You look like you’re having a morning.”

            I’d like to complain about it—oh, would it ever be satisfying to have a good whinge about life right now—but one look at him and I can tell that my problems are not going to compare to whatever he has going on. “I’m fine. Want to tell me why I’m missing work today?”

            “You know I wouldn’t—“

            “Ask, yes dear, we did this song and dance. Out with it.”

            Threading his fingers together, Derrell rocks slightly in his seat before speaking. “You ever come across Evan Culley?”

            With a frown, I search my memory. I come up empty. “Can’t say as I have.”

            “To be honest, I couldn’t have pointed him out in the halls until last night, when I pulled out the yearbook to figure out what the kid even looked like.” Derrell picks up the yearbook and holds it out to me. “Sophomore, sixteen last month. Single mother working two jobs and they’re still under the poverty line. Passing, never won anything, doesn’t belong to any clubs, doesn’t play sports.”

            I look at the boy in the picture. He doesn’t smile, looking blankly out from the page. Longish brown hair, some acne, and entirely unremarkable. It’s like a disillusionment charm has been cast on him. My eyes just want to slide off him to find something more interesting. Tossing the yearbook back on the desk, I shrug. “Well, he’s a white male, so he’s still won life’s sweepstakes. What’s his issue?”

            Derrell pauses. “I got a call from his mother two days ago. She was worried about him, so she went through his stuff and came up some things. She didn’t know what else to do, so she called me. Showed me his journal. I took some copies, just to be on the safe side.” He holds out some papers. “I asked her if it was all right for me to show you these, and she gave the go ahead.”

            I take the papers into my hands, tilting my head. The boy has atrocious handwriting. It takes me a moment to work out the words.

            When I do, I feel cold.

            I get halfway down the first page, then lift my head, my pulse raising. “Tell me he’s in custody.”

            “He’s in class.”

            My jaw drops, and I exclaim, “What the fuck do you mean, he’s in class? Why is—“ I raise the pages. “ _This_ in class with my kids? With _your_ kids?”

            “You know how I feel about calling in the cops on the kids—“

            “Are you joking? Is this a joke? Tell me you’re having me on.”

            “Draco, come on. I’ve been in this school for a decade. I know when a kid means it and when they don’t.”

            Shaking the papers, I say, distressed, and quite rightly so, “This bloody sounds to me like he means it.”

            “Keep reading.”

            I don’t understand. I don’t understand why he is being so naïve. Children can do some pretty terrible things when they think they _know_. But they don’t. They don’t know a damned thing.

            I read the rest, then shrug, shaking my head. “Best he do it, then. Spare the rest of us the grief.”

            Eyes narrowing, Derrell says, “Don’t be an asshole.”

            “I’m not being an asshole, I’m being worried about the kids.”

            “And you think I’m not?”

            “This boy should be arrested.”

            “He doesn’t have a weapon. His mother searched the house from top to bottom. I went over there, talked to them. He’s not—“ Derrell lets out a deep breath. “Hear me out. He’s not a bad kid.”

            I drop my head back, then retort, “You said that about that Colón boy.”

            “He wasn’t a bad kid, he just made bad choices—don’t look at me like that. I’m a grown man. I’m a principal, for Christ’s sake. Don’t look at me like that.”

            Tossing the papers back on the desk, I say, “You can’t save everyone. Not everyone is worth saving.”

            “Yeah? And if I said that to you about Demetrius?”

            I point at the pages. “Us has never written a fucking manifesto. And don’t think that Us is anything like this—what, Evan? Us actually has a chance. This is—why are you showing this to me? This is far above my paygrade. I’m a glorified tutor slash babysitter. Why the hell are you showing me this?”

            Whatever he says next, I know I will hate. Derrell seems to know it too, but he looks me in the eyes while he speaks. “I’ve talked to them both, and there’s no way I can get him in with someone long term until the start of summer. For now, it has to be short term. The mother, Joanna, she can’t take time off work or she’s going to lose her jobs and then they’ll be homeless and that won’t help the situation. We’ll have him here during the day, and I can get him in with Essie a couple nights a week, and at the center on weekends, but I was—hoping…you could take him with the boys until the end of the month.”

            I’m staring. When I realize that, I make myself blink. Scooting forward a few inches, I say, “Have you lost your mind?”

            “When summer starts, we’ll have him full time at the center on evenings—“

            “He can walk away from that whenever he pleases—“

            “He’s promised he won’t. He’ll be at the center, and Iris will be back, she can see him a couple times a week. This is going to work.” I fall back in the chair, shaking my head. Derrell continues, uncowed. “We have a chance here, Draco. A real chance. This is a kid that can be saved. We got him in time—maybe. If we all pull together and really make the effort, show this kid that there’s options, that he’s not alone, I think we can avert a disaster.”

            “What’s the liability on this?” I ask. “You have to report this. There must be a rule that says you have to report this.”

            “He never said any specific names—“

            “He’s specific enough—“

            “Come on. You know what they’ll do to this kid. People are on edge about this kind of thing.”

            “Why aren’t you?” I yelp.

            “You think I’m not? Give me some credit. If I thought—if I seriously thought that this boy was a threat, I’d turn him over. But after talking to him—Draco, I think the only person he’d ever hurt is himself. The kid cried like a baby when I told him that I’d read his journal. That sound dangerous to you?”

            “ _Yes_.”

            Sighing, Derrell says, “Would you trust me? I know what I’m doing.”

            “Think the other parents would believe that?”

            “They have a problem, I’ll remind them of all the times I gave their kid a pass, on things a lot worse than just writing.”

            “This is premeditation.”

            “Draco. I’m asking you for a favour.”

            God damn it.

            Fingers curling, I say carefully, “I—don’t like the position that could put my boys in. Let alone any other person in this ticking time bomb’s radius—“

            “Draco.”

            I bite my lip, closing my eyes. I see the hand of every person who reached out to me. The ones I slapped away, and the ones I did not.

            Opening my eyes, I say flatly, “If you were any other person, I would tell you to stick your head up your own arse. I would even offer to help.”

            He smiles crookedly. “Good thing I was there when you needed me, though.”

            “Fuck,” I mutter, pushing my hands into my hair.

            “Hey, is that one new?”

            I look over my shoulder to the narcissus. “Hm? Oh, yes, it’s—“ I stop, glaring at him. “Don’t distract me.”

            Derrell raises his shoulders. “He’s just a kid, Draco.”

            I say, “You and I know what kids are capable of.”

            Do I ever.

 

When I walk up to the door of the shop, nearly at the bottom of my quadruple shot latte, there’s a delivery man in brown shorts at the front door, writing one of those ‘sorry we missed you’ notes. It’s not our usual UPS person, Sandra.

            Quickening my step, I call out, “Pardon me. That’s me.”

            He glances up. “You the owner?”

            “God no,” I say, pulling out my keys and unlocking the door. “We don’t open until 11. Our usual driver doesn’t come by until 1, usually—“

            “This was a priority delivery.”

            Furrowing my brow, I look down at the large box on his dolly. The boxes look like MadaCide. I didn’t order any. Oh Christ—he didn’t. He can’t have been that stupid.

            Of course he could.    

            I hold the door open so the man can wheel the box inside. He shoves it off the dolly, none too carefully, then pulls out his machine for me to sign. Without a word, he turns to leave, and I say after him, “Have a _lovely_ weekend.”

            I lock the door after him. It’s ten. People will start rolling in soon, and we’ll open at 11.

            Stuffing my keys in my pocket, I crouch down to pick up the box. It’s not as heavy as MadaCide usually is, and I can’t hear the swishing of liquid. This is exceedingly peculiar. I go around the desk with its high counter, setting the box on my work area.

            Wiggling my fingers under the tape, I strip it off the top of the box. I make it into a little ball, tossing it into the empty bin in the waiting area, ten feet away. What exactly did the fool order?

            I open the box, pulling out the invoice, and look inside. They aren’t bottles of MadaCide. That’s what we use here. With a frown, I take a glance at the invoice.

            I…might die from the shock.

            All I’ve lived through, I know what it feels like when the blood drains from my face. I’m pale enough, so I know what it feels like when I go grey. And I’ve done that.

            There’s the sound of keys in the door, and I look up to see Jason on the other side. He looks happy as always, roly poly and bearded, tattoos peeking out from every surface save his face. He smiles, not quite looking at me, as he pushes the door open.

            “Good morning sunsh—“ He turns around, and stops. He has his own cup of coffee in hand, his satchel strap across his chest. Pulling his head back, he asks, “What?”

            I can’t speak a moment. I simply lift the invoice. “Your nephew just spent $1200 of your money on MadaCide wipes.”

            Jason stares at me, then repeats, “ _What_?”

            He strides forward, snatching the paper out of my hand. I simply sink into my comfortable, ergonomic rolling chair as he walks around the counter. Setting my elbows on the desk, I put my head in my hands.

            This day. I don’t know what I’ve done to annoy the universe this badly—lately—but I feel that this might be unmerited.

            “What did—how did—how did he even—“

            “He bought it off Amazon. Priority shipping.” I rub my hands over my face. “He must have gotten his hands on the credit card somehow.”

            “Fuck me sideways.” I drop my hands, and I see Jason look at me. “Draco….”

            I reach over, taking the paper from him. “None of my business,” I say. “I just work here.”

            “Buddy, don’t be like that—“

            I push back to the filing cabinet, opening up the drawer and adding the invoice to the others for the month. It’s only the fourth, so there aren’t many. “None of my business,” I say icily, and push the box of wipes towards him, just away from me, _away_ , so I can have my desk back.

            After a second, Jason sighs in frustration, and picks up the box, disappearing behind the wall to the studio.

            I just shake my head, feeling wrung out all of a sudden. Ten in the morning, and I feel like I’ve been pummelled.

            Okay, it’s only ten and this day has been absolute shit. I think this might call for a pastry. I can run across the street to the bodega, buy one of those disgusting cheap danishes, and be back in all of two minutes. Capital idea.

            I stand up, saying, “I’m running over to Domingo’s. Do you want anything?”

            “What?”

            Raising my voice, I repeat, “I’m going to Domingo’s. Do you want anything?”

            Jason reappears, looking like he’s walking on eggshells. Which he fucking should right now. “Yeah, you want to get a bunch of those cookies? The ones his mom makes?”

            “I know which ones.” He reaches for his wallet, and I say, “No, I have it—“

            “Come on, it’s gonna come out of petty cash—“

            Reaching for my own wallet, I say, “I’ll pay myself out—“

            It’s gone.

            My wallet isn’t there.

            It takes a second of me standing here before I realize Jason’s saying my name. I look up, and he says worriedly, “You okay, man?”

            “My wallet’s gone,” I say quietly.

            “You sure you didn’t just forget it?”

            I didn’t use it at the coffee shop down the street, I just pulled change out of my pocket—fuck. The school. Someone nicked it at the school. Closing my eyes briefly, I say quietly, “No, I definitely had it.”

            The picture.

            I fall back down into the chair. This day. This fucking day.

            I turn the computer on. “You sure you don’t want to go home?” Jason asks. “Make sure? I’m fine if you want to do that.”

            He’s being nice because of his nephew’s massive fuck-up, but I’ve just gone blank inside, like I do when things go tits up and I can’t take another second. Picking up the phone, pinning it between my ear and shoulder, I say, “I need to cancel my bank cards.”

            I’m waiting for the computer to load so I can look up the phone number for my bank and credit card company. Jason’s waiting off to the side, not sure of what to do.

            “Hey,” he says, “at least tomorrow’s—“

            I lift an index finger. I think I might _Crucio_ him if he says another word. He gets the point and disappears behind the wall.

            The wallet, I can lose. The cards, whatever. It’s only money, after all. But the picture….

            That is not replaceable.

 

The phone rings and I put it up to my ear, saying automatically, “Marley Tattoo, Draco speaking, how may I help you?”

            “Hey, I’d—like to make an appointment?”

            I close my eyes briefly.

            It’s one in the afternoon. Two women wait in the reception area, which seats six. The front of the shop is closed off from the studio. Slate grey walls, my big desk, some of Leanna’s acrylic paintings of abstract birds hung up, the store front nothing but windows. I’ve pulled the blinds halfway down to be rid of the glare.

            Behind me is the steady sound of machines at work, and the occasional bit of chatter. Nothing from the fucking moron who just cost us $1200 making an extraneous purchase. That would have something to do with the blowout in the store room that even I could hear from the other side of the shop.

            “We don’t make appointments over the phone,” I say, patient as I’m able. “You have to come in to speak to someone.”

            “What do you mean?”

            I try to take pity on her, because she sounds young, and like she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing. Of course, it’s not my job to fucking hand hold. “When you want to get a tattoo, you don’t make an appointment over the phone. You have to come in, speak to the tattooist in question, and at that point an appointment will be made.”

            “Oh.”

            “Bring in what you want tattooed. Printed out. Not on your phone. Do you understand?”

            “Oh—yeah. Um…when should I come in?”

            Scratching my brow, I say, “Do you know who you want to see?”

            “No.”

            I lay my head on my arms and shut my eyes. Most days, I feel pretty good about this job. Right now, I feel like a real dogsbody. “Okay, just come in, and have a look at the portfolios.”

            “It’s just something little that I want.”

            “Come in…and have a look at the portfolios.”

            “What time? Can I book a time to come in?”

            “That…would be an appointment. We don’t make appointments over the phone.”

            “You just want me to show up?”

            “Yes, that would be the idea.” I lean back in my chair, thinking of all the years I coasted through life. I wonder how long I’ll be working that off.

            “Okay.”

            “Any other questions?”

            “No—“

            “All right, bye then.”

            I hang up, because I don’t think I can take another second.

            There’s chuckling from behind me, and I look up. Leanna’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed and laughing at me. Leaning back in my chair, I ask, “That was amusing for you?”

            “You have no idea.”

            “Just for that, if the silly bint ever does show up, I’m sending her right to you.”

            I growl when Leanna wraps her arms around my shoulders. “Oh, Draco. You’re just so sweet and adorable.”

            Shaking my head, I mutter, “I could kill you using the power of my mind.”

            She laughs again, letting me go, and leans back against my desk. She’s wearing a tight denim jumpsuit, her black curls tied up in a red polka dot scarf. Make-up flawless as always, eyebrows pencil thin over her dark eyes. When she smiles, her cheek dimples, but it’s because of an old piercing that’s long since been taken out.

            Tilting my head, I say, “Your Monroe has heeled nicely.” She and her sister had matching ones done.

            Leanna raises her shoulders, beaming with mock bashfulness. “I’m an international beauty queen.” That gives me my first laugh in hours. I don’t know, something about how things slide off her just makes me feel better sometimes. She pokes at my chair with her toes. “I hear you’re having a shitty day.”

            “One could say that.”

            “Is it just because you’re—“

            “No. My wallet was stolen.”

            “That sucks. You cancel your cards?”

            “Done. I’ll have to go get my ID and everything next week.”

            “Double suck.” She glances towards the back and lowers her voice. “Think we’ve seen the last of fuck stick?”

            Mood going black again, I say, “Not by a long shot.” She frowns, crossing her arms and tapping her fingernails against her pin-up alien tattoo. “The idiot could hit an artery and we’d still be stuck with him.”

            “Did you see that review on Yelp?”

            “You know I don’t look at those.” If I’m ever mentioned, it’s about how rude or cold I am, though I’d say I’m simply being a professional and the kind of people who leave reviews don’t seem to appreciate that.

            Leanna simply says, “Savage.” She shivers, then brushes it off, like it doesn’t matter. “We gonna do shots tomorrow?”

            “Yes—wait. Not like last year.”

            She slaps my arm. “Of _course_ like last year.”

            “I refuse to drink tequila from between your tits. It’s not becoming.”

            “For who?”

            “Either of us,” I reply, and she just chuckles.

            “Draco.”

            We both look up, and I shut down. The idiot—Freddy, I suppose, if I’m forced to use his name—is standing in the doorway looking petulant, and just from the sight of him, I know he’s going to try and push at the boundaries, because he’s upset over being yelled at.

            Levelly, I say, “Yes?”

            He pulls out a money clip, and says, “Go grab me some smokes.”

            I arch a brow as Leanna says in disbelief, “What did you just say to him?”

            Freddy takes a twenty off that ridiculous wad of cash—I know it’s all ones in the middle—and slams it down on the desk between the two of us. “Not like he’s fucking doing anything,” he says to Leanna, and walks back into the studio without another glance at me.

            I look at the bill as Leanna seethes. “Okay,” she says, smacking a hand on the desk and pushing herself up, “I’m gonna—“

            I catch her by the wrist, tugging her back. “Will you watch the desk a moment?” I say mildly, getting to my feet.

            Staring at me, Leanna says in disbelief, “You’re not actually going to—“ I cast her a withering gaze, and she lifts her hands, taking my chair. “Of course not. Forget I said that.”

            I pick up the twenty, and walk into the studio.

            Jason and Rodrigo are both leaning over their clients. Leanna’s last client, a straight up porkchop tattoo, left ten minutes ago and her station is spotless. Freddy’s left twenty minutes ago and he’s just started on the cleanup. The stereo’s playing something rockabilly. I don’t know what it is, it’s Jason’s iPod.

            I walk across the studio to Freddy’s station, ripping the twenty in half as I go. I feel Jason’s eyes on me, hear the pause of his machine, but I don’t bother with him. He’s a lost cause, as far as his terrible nephew goes.

            Freddy sees me coming, I know he does, but he pretends not to. That’s fine. I don’t care if he acknowledges me or not. The man’s the walking definition of an utter gob-shite. Stopping in front of his chair, I hold up the torn bill between my index and middle finger. “I’m not your fucking slave.”

            I toss the pieces at him, then turn and walk away. He yells after me, but I ignore him, and Jason tells him to keep it down.

            Leanna looks up when I return. “You kill him? Tell me you killed him.”

            I wave for her to get out of my chair. “Yes, absolutely. He’s dead, and no longer any of our concern.” I drop into my chair with a sigh, feeling about a million years old.

            Then the door opens, and a guy comes in, wanting to talk to someone about a tattoo, and of course his only reference is on his damned phone.

 

I’m straightening the desk one more time before I go—two and a half hours early, same as every Wednesday and Friday during the school year (I don’t work Mondays)—when Jason comes up to me.

            Without any preamble, he says, “Draco, don’t quit.”

            Admittedly, the thought has crossed my mind a few times today. I do love it here. I love Jason and Rodrigo and Leanna and Isaac, I love the shop, I love the rhythms of the place, I love the nature of my work, as unimportant as it might seem to some. I’ve been here over seven years, and I had no intentions of leaving any time soon.

            At least until the idiot came along.

            “Get rid of him,” I say.

            He slumps. “Buddy—you know I can’t—“

            I shake my head, double checking to make sure I have my phone and keys at least. No wallet. No picture. My irreplaceable picture. “He’ll sink us. People will start leaving, because they know you’ll pick him over running a good shop. We had the best shop in this whole borough until he showed up. He’s a rock around our neck. You have to cut him loose.”

            “He’s family.”

            I’m not moved. “Trust me—nothing will sink you faster than family.”

            He’s not going to change his mind, and he doesn’t have anything else to say, so I leave.

 

I texted Richie earlier to let him know I’d be a bit late, and for everyone to get started without me. God only knows if they’ll listen or just faff about until I show up.

            At this point, the day is simply a thing to be endured. The coffee cup, those inconsiderate children, Mrs. E, Derrell, my wallet being stolen, the MadaCide wipes, Jason’s nephew treating me like a fucking house elf—I’m resigned to the fact that things will continue in this vein until tomorrow. No avoiding it. I have to put my head down and push through.

            I walk back through the halls of the high school, keeping my head up for anyone who dares look at me suspiciously. One of these little shits stole my picture. There’s no forgiving that. If it was just the cards, it would be no matter. But the photo—

            _Steady_.

            There aren’t all that many kids left. Most of them flee the building as soon as that last bell is rung. It’s nothing like Hogwarts. The school isn’t a home, it’s just a place they come to, and leave eager as anything. The hallways are narrow. The first time I saw lockers I was flabbergasted by the notion. How were people supposed to _move_?

            Awkwardly, as it turns out, with maximum possibility for confrontation.

            I don’t see any of my boys, which is either good—they left on time—or they’ve ended up in detention. I’m not of a mood to be understanding if they have. I’m of a mood to throttle someone, frankly.

            Returning to the principal’s office, I nod to Stacy. She tells me again that he’s waiting for me. I knock on the door, and go in.

            He looks up, and I look at him instead of the boy sitting in front of him, his head down. Derrell pauses, then says, “Evan, this is Draco Malloy. Draco, this is Evan Culley.”

            The boy nods ever so slightly, hiding behind his hair. I’m not having it. I stick my hand out, practically in his face, so he can’t avoid it. “Evan,” I say shortly.

            The boy looks at my hand, startled, then reaches up and takes it. His palm is clammy. Charming.

            I let go as soon as I’m able, sticking my hands in my pockets. “You have your things?” Another barely-there incline of the head. I nod toward the door. “Well, come on, then.”

            The boy picks up his bag and slinks out the door, without having met my eyes once.

            I’m following him when Derrell says, “Draco.” I pause, hand on the door. Derrell raises his brows. “You okay?”

            I almost don’t tell him, but I’m worn out. “One of the kids stole my wallet when I was here this morning.”

            He almost says, ‘Fuck,’ but catches himself. Sitting back, he asks, already knowing the answer, “You want to file a report?”

            I shrug. “What would be the point?” Arching a brow at him, I say, “Guess who’s buying all my drinks tomorrow.”

            Slumping, Derrell says, “Well—happy early—“

            “Don’t,” I mutter, and shut the door behind myself.

 

We get about forty feet past school property, without a word said, before I break the silence.

            “So. Why do you want to kill everyone and yourself?”

            Evan stumbles, ever so slightly. I’ve caught him off guard. I imagine everyone has been on eggshells around him the last few days. I don’t have the mental fortitude for that today.

            He mumbles, “I don’t.”

            “Don’t lie to me. I’ve not the patience for it. You wrote it, you meant it. So why do you want to kill everyone?”

            He doesn’t say anything to that. He’s a good six inches shorter than I am, but he seems even smaller, hunched in on himself, wearing too-large clothes. His blue hoodie wants to swallow his hands and his pants have been worn ragged at the bottom. My guess is that he chose them for himself, instead of it being a situation of his mother thinking he’d grow into them.

            Myself, I wear clothes that are tight and I walk with my head up, shoulders square. Mother wouldn’t have it if I dared walk through life with poor posture.

            “Here’s the deal. You have five seconds to respond when I ask you a question. If you say ‘I don’t know’ I’ll keep asking the same question until I’m certain that you don’t actually have an answer. I’m well acquainted with the teenage capacity for sullen silences and protestations, and I don’t put up with them. If I have to keep an eye on you, you operate under the same rules as the other boys, and if you don’t like it, you can fuck off.”

            He glances at me in surprise, and it’s the first actual look I get at his eyes. They’re green, as it turns out.

            “I’m not a teacher,” I remind him. “I work through the mentor program at the community center. I don’t have to use kid gloves with you, because no one is going to fire me for being tough on you. It’s actually one of the things they like about me, because I have an excellent track record for keeping children from killing one another. I don’t have to pretend like you’re a delicate flower that needs to be saved, and I’ve no intention of trying to save you. Or anyone else for that matter. You have to save yourself, just like the rest.” I stick my hands in my back pockets, stepping aside as two kids run past. I’ve already been burned—literally—once today, thanks. “The principal told me you’re a good kid. Is that the truth?”

            Evan shrugs once, and mumbles, “I dunno.”

            “You don’t know? You wrote that you were going to bring a gun to school and kill everyone. Does that sound like a good person to you?”

            Reddening, he says quietly, “Guess not.”

            “No, it certainly well doesn’t. You’re young enough that you can come back from something like this, if you want to, but I’m not here to coddle you through anything. I’m not a therapist, and I don’t have any answers for you. My only job is to keep an eye on you, three times a week, to make sure you don’t kill anyone or yourself until the end of June. After that, you are someone else’s problem. In the meantime, you’ll meet with me and the rest of the boys on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, from three thirty until six. You will bring your homework. If you need help with that, I’ll give you any assistance that I can. We also have discussions, and the only rule is that you be honest and don’t press anyone else to tell more than they want to. That’s my job. Monday and Wednesday, we meet at the center. Fridays they don’t have space for us, so we go to DeMarco’s pizza parlour. If you miss a single session, I’ll tell Principal Myers and your mother and they can deal with you. Are you unclear on any of that?”

            “No.”

            “Good. Another thing.” I hold up a hand, stopping him, and face him, even though he’s still avoiding my eyes. “If I think for one single solitary second that you’re going to hurt someone, I will call the police. I won’t stop to tell anyone first, I’ll just do it. And if you hurt one of my boys, I will fucking kill you myself. Clear?”

            He blinks a few times at the pavement, then nods abruptly.

            “Good.” I hold out my hand. “Give me your phone.”

            He doesn’t bother arguing. He pulls it out of his back pocket, passing it over. Battered old Razr. Been a while since I’ve seen one of these. I bring up his contacts—of which there’s a total of two, his mother and grandmother—then add my name to them.

            “This is my number. You can use it at any time of the day or night. If it’s not an emergency, text me. No matter where I am, I’ll respond within five minutes. If it’s an emergency, then call me. Ask the other boys if you want—I always get back.” I send a text to my phone from his so I have his number, then give him the phone back. I put my hands on my hips, looking him over. He’s not much, but that’s not what worries me. “I understand I’m being short with you right now, but that’s because I don’t know you, and what I do know scares me. Everyone around you says you wouldn’t really go through with it, but just looking at you, I think you probably would. Know how I know that?”

            He doesn’t say anything.

            I snap my fingers in front of his face, startling him. “Five second rule. How do I know you meant what you wrote?”

            “I—dunno.”

            I know he’s telling the truth. “Because when I was your age, I said the same thing, and I meant it, and I almost did it too. So you’re not going to be able to keep many secrets from me.” I continue walking without waiting for him. “Keep up. We’re already late.”

           

When I open the door, I take in the visible absence straight away, even as the boys try to cover it with cheerful greetings, gathered around pushed-together tables, all of them with fizzy drinks. Not falling for it, I say flatly, “Where’s Us?”

            Michael’s face falls, and he looks away quickly. He either knows or has some idea. The other boys shrug a little and avert their eyes. Victor’s the only one to say, “Don’t know, Dre. He just didn’t show after school.”

            Growling, I give Evan a light push towards the tables, to the empty seat where Us should be. “Everyone, this is Evan. He’ll be with us until the end of June.”

            “What did you do?” Richie asks immediately as Evan sits down.

            “Oi,” I bark.

            Richie rolls his eyes, sitting back, and starts to recite. “When people do not respect us we are sharply offended; yet in his private heart no man much respects himself.”

            “Better,” I say, sitting down. Every boy should have several quotations about respect at the ready. I put my elbows on the back of the chair, looking around. “Who saw Us at school today?”

            They avoid my gaze, but Yadiel speaks to Victor in Spanish. With a nod, Victor says to me, “Yadz saw him leave before final period.”

            “English,” I remind Yadiel.

            With a roll of the eyes, Yadiel says haltingly, “I see—leave—before—school finish.” He throws his hands up, frustrated, and says something at me in a burst of Spanish.

            I’ve heard the words enough over the years that even I can remember them. “It’s a lost cause. I’m too old and thick to learn Spanish. You’re young. Your brain can take it in.”

            Victor tells me, “He says you’re a hypocrite.” Yadiel smacks his cousin on the arm. “What? Then don’t tell me. You know I’m gonna tell him.”

             I sit back, shaking my head and sighing. Going into the last month of school, and he’s blowing off a study session. He hasn’t missed one in a month. God _damn_ it.

            “Mr. Malloy!”

            I look up as Mr. DeMarco emerges from the kitchen with a fresh pizza. “I’m going to order.” I ask Evan, “Do you want anything?” He shakes his head. “Suit yourself.”

            I walk up to the counter. The restaurant is small. Not many people stop to eat here, especially when the front window is taken up by an unruly looking group of largely black and Puerto Rican kids. Customers usually call in orders and then take them out.

            “How’s the day going?” Mr. Demarco asks. He looks a lot like his son, Richie, but thirty years older and with ropey muscles that bulge at his shirt sleeves.

            “Another one in paradise,” I say, plucking at my shirt. It’s so warm in here, almost as warm as outside. I won’t complain, though. It’s a safe place to keep the boys for two and a half hours. “Yourself?”

            “About the same. What was that I heard my kid saying?”

            “Mark Twain, I believe.”

            Chuckling, Mr. DeMarco starts cutting the pie under the heated lights. “Mark Twain. Gotta be a first for my kid. Having the usual?”

            “I have to confess—my wallet was stolen when I went to the school.”

            “Christ, that’s unbelievable. Try to help those little ingrates, and—“

            “Yes, well—I don’t exactly have enough on me to pay you—“

            He looks at me from under his brows. “Mr. Malloy. Have I let you pay a single time since Richie started making Cs and Bs instead of Ds?”

            “No, but it’s the principle of the thing,” I say stubbornly.

            He just laughs at me, and glances at the table. “Who’s the new one?”

            “Evan. Needs some extra help going into exams.”

            “What’s he having?”

            “He wouldn’t say.”

            Mr. DeMarco passes me two cups for the pop machine. “Well, get him a drink. See if he changes his mind.”

            He has my usual slice of plain cheese pizza ready for me. It’s as wide at the top as the tip of my thumb to pinkie finger, cheese oozing onto the plate. My stomach growls, and I realize I’ve eaten very little today. I fill the cups up with Coke, then go back to the table.

            Richie and Victor are discussing the merits of their substitute maths teacher, and I have to break in as I pass Evan his drink. “When did it become acceptable here to talk about women as objects instead of human beings?”

            “We wasn’t saying she was an object or anything,” protests Richie.

            “When you reduce a woman to the sum of her body parts, you are indeed.”

            “Yeah? What would you know about it?”

            I cast him an affectionate look. “Queer as I am, still more than you, Richard DeMarco.” I nod to the books on the table. “Now, who has what?”

 

These are my boys for the year.

            There are the Cedeño cousins, Victor and Yadiel. Victor’s born and bred Bronx, with ADHD that goes untreated sometimes because his parents can’t always afford the medication. He’s been one of mine the last two years, ever since he reached high school. He’s the one I can always depend on to have something to say, or rat the others out, not because he means to, but because he can’t help himself talking.

            Yadiel is sixteen as well, but his reading and writing comprehension in English is minimal, so he’s a year behind Victor. The family arrived here from rural Puerto Rico seven months ago, and the two boys could be twins except around the eyes. Victor’s are wide, and Yadiel’s brow is near always furrowed. The only reason I have Yadiel is because of his language skills—Victor brought him along, and he talked me into it. Usually I only take on the ones who are on the verge of flunking out entirely. Yadiel’s come so far in the last seven months that I’m envious. I’ve tried on and off to learn Spanish for the last eight years—I work in the Bronx three nights a week, after all—but I’m an utter failure at it. I think with enough help, Yadiel might, and this is a very loaded _might_ , graduate on time.

            There’s Zion Higgins, who I got after he did a short stretch at Horizon Juvenile Center for burglary. I’ve had boys who go in there and come out worse off than when they went in, and then I get the ones like Zion who never want to go back. Earlier in the year, I was leaving the school and he and his parents all mobbed me at once, and I had two adults with very thick Jamaican accents speaking at me faster than I could comprehend and this large child looking at me with pleading eyes. I’ll admit, I have a soft spot for the ones who have done time or who have relatives in prison. I would say that he was probably at a sixth grade reading level at the start of the year, but he’s worked incredibly hard, and now he’s at about an eighth. He worries himself unduly about his maths, though—I’d say he’s the best of the lot with it.

            Richie DeMarco is another of my juvenile offenders. He’s still on probation for destruction of property and driving drunk. Drove a car through the front of the very pizza parlour we’re sitting in, which his father was of course exceedingly thrilled about. Richie is a bright enough young man, but he’s lazy and has a smart mouth. Since I’ve kept after him like a rabid dog, he’s not going to have to repeat his sophomore year. But God, it’s been close.

            Sadly, Michael Marks and I are almost done. I got Michael two years ago, after he saw his older brother shot and killed outside their house. Apparently Michael didn’t say much before that, but afterwards he said nothing at all. He’d go to lessons, but he wouldn’t do the work, wouldn’t speak. So he became one of mine. He’s still not the most vocal person I’ve ever met, but when he does speak people know to listen. I’m exceedingly proud of Michael. He’s going to the community college in the fall. Getting his certificate in Animal Care Management. One of those people with a soft spot for animals. I’m not one of them, but if it makes him happy, bless him.

            Then there’s Us.

            Every year I have a problem child. Of course, they’re all problem children, but there’s always the one that goes above and beyond. This year it’s Us.

            I know when to let a kid go. Sometimes Derrell or the center gives me a boy who cannot be helped. I can recognize where the line is. And there’s a difference between someone who can’t be helped and who doesn’t want to be helped. I’ll sink my teeth in even if they don’t want help. I come from a long line of stubborn individuals, and I’m not afraid of a challenge. I won’t beat my head against a wall forever, though.

            Us, though. Every other year, every three years, I’ll get someone _special_. One of those kids who has something that the others don’t. Just watching one of those kids, you know that if they don’t make it, it’s a tragedy. An actual out and out tragedy.

            Demetrius Glenn might be a tragedy in the making. He got his nickname because his uncle was always having to yell to find him, and got sick of having to say, “Demetrius!” over and over again. He had his usual wide grin on while he told the story, and when I asked why his uncle was yelling for him, Us just shrugged and said proudly, “Because I’m walking trouble.” An understatement.

            He’s already been through Horizon twice, and I’m trying to impress upon him that the next time he’s caught with a gun, he’s not going back there. They’ll probably send him to Rikers. But he just laughs, and says, “Whatever. If that’s what’s gonna happen.” He acts like nothing matters, and it’s galling.

            If only he wasn’t so— _everything_. He’s brilliant, I mean actually brilliant. If he shows up to a test, he’ll ace the thing. It doesn’t matter if he’s studied. I mentioned Milton once, and the week after he had read _Paradise Lost_ and wanted to talk about it, even though he was supposed to be reading _Death of a Salesman_ for his English class and hadn’t so much as cracked the thing. He’s smart, and he’s funny, and charismatic. A natural leader. If I can convince Us to do something, the others fall in line. Everyone likes him.

            But he’s unpredictable and I can’t get him to take anything seriously. Lately I’ve heard that he’s been hanging out with that Nines fellow, who is the definition of bad news. Us has one year left of school, and if he doesn’t apply himself—I just don’t want another Roderick on my hands, is all. I lose boys, of course I do, but I think that if Us doesn’t make something of himself, it’ll be a crime.

            Those are my boys for the year.

            And this Evan boy, who wants to kill everyone and himself.

 

I keep my arms crossed and my eyes unblinking as I stare at Michael. He does a very good job of pretending to ignore me, but his shoulders get more and more hunched as the minutes pass.

            Finally, he lifts his head and says, “What?”

            “Is he with Nines?” Michael’s the closest to Us. They’ve lived on the same block since they were toddlers. I can usually depend on Michael to know where he is.

            Michael shrugs.

            I shrug right back at him. “What does this mean? This isn’t an acceptable response. I require words.”

            He grimaces, and says, “I don’t know.”

            The other boys all respond in their own ways. Richie just tosses down his pen to watch what will happen, and Victor says, “You didn’t say that. You know he doesn’t like that. You did not just say that.” Michael glares at him, then goes back to gazing at the notebook in front of him.

            I study his bowed head. I know he’s seventeen, that he’s already had his graduation ceremony (where I cheered for him until my throat was sore), but the idea that he’s considered an adult in the world I came from, that he’ll be considered one in the regular world in under two months—it frightens me. No denying it.

            “You don’t know,” I echo. He gives his head a little shake. “Look me in the eyes and say that.”

            The boys know better than to even try it with me. When they come to me, most of them give it a shot, but I have the Malfoy glare. These eyes don’t miss much.

            Michael is still a moment. Then he gives another little shrug.

            Teenagers and their ridiculous insistence on secrecy. There’s no way for me to shake it out of him, but I really do want to grab him by his large shoulders and give him a good rattle, and tell him no good could possibly come from this.

            So instead, I give a shrug of my own and say, “That’s too bad. I guess I’ll just have to go out looking for him, then.”

            Michael’s head shoots up, and he looks queasy. “You’re gonna go looking for Nines?” says Richie.

            “No, I’m going to go looking for Us,” I respond, picking up my half-full Coke. “If he happens to be with Nines, I suppose I’ll end up speaking to them both.”

            They all know that I have an uncanny ability to find who I’m searching for. It’s naught to do with magic, really. It’s sheer stubbornness and being clever.

            “Yo, Dre, don’t do that,” Victor pleads. “Nines is serious, he’s serious business—“

            I raise a brow. “I’m not serious?”

            “You’re serious, okay? But you don’t have no gun.”

            I snort, brushing back my hair. “I’m not afraid of guns, and Victor, you know how I feel about double negatives.” I look at Michael, who looks like he’s trying to plead with me telepathically. “Yes? You have something to say?” He turns his eyes away, frustrated and worried. Well, he’ll have to live with that, if he doesn’t want to tell me the truth. “Then I guess we all know how I’m spending my Friday evening. That’s just wonderful.” I rub my hands together. “Evan? How are you doing with Ms. Hinton?”

            He shrugs and mumbles, “Okay, I guess.”

            “Great. Zion—how’s your sister?”

            He rolls his eyes. “She’s driving me _crazy_ , Dre. I swear she’s jumping on that bed just to bug me.”

            “Dude,” Richie says, “she’s like eight. Shouldn’t she be over that shit? Is she ret—“

            I reach out and smack the back of his head before the rest of the word can get out. He yelps, ducking away. “Richard, how do I feel about that word?”

            “You know, that’s child abuse.”

            I lean back and call, “Mr. DeMarco, I’m abusing your son. Do you mind?”

            His father responds, “Hit him harder.”

            “Anyways, Zion. Your sister.”

            He sighs. “I’ve been trying to tell my parents that maybe she’s got ADHD, like Victor’s been telling me and Us, but they don’t want to hear it. They think I’m just trying to get the attention off of me or something.”

            “Are you?”

            “No, she’s driving me insane. For real. I can never catch her in front of Mom and Dad, though, so they think I’m making it up.”

            “Maybe you are insane,” Richie suggests.

            “What about sitting her down and talking to her?” I ask. Zion rolls his eyes. “I’m serious. What if you sat her down and actually tried to talk to her?”

            “I don’t think I _could_ get her to sit down.”

            “Evan, you have any siblings?” He glances up, and shakes his head. “Nor I. All right—people with siblings, what’s the best way to communicate with them?”

            We talk about obnoxious little brothers and sisters, and bullying older brothers and sisters. Probably best that Us isn’t here for that conversation—he tends to monopolize the conversation when he starts going on Elysha, his eleven year old sister. We talk about Mrs. Feuerstein and how not to panic during her essay tests. Richie starts to bad mouth the Red Sox, and I let him go on for two minutes before stopping him. Best to let the kids blow off steam when it comes to the Red Sox. We go over everyone’s maths, and I get everyone to tell me something about a teacher that bothered them this week. They always like that, being able to complain about their teachers to an adult who’ll listen. I write down a few movies that they mention. Even after all this time, I’m still trying to catch up on all the things I missed, being a freak.

            Six comes quickly, the same as it always does, the shop filling around us, and I say, “All right, let’s wrap things up, gentlemen. Something bad and something good. Starting clockwise. Victor.”

            He sits back, tugging on one of his curls. It’s a nervous tic he does sometimes, to keep the words from spilling out. “Something bad is…still a couple weeks til break. Something good is I remembered to take my pills all week.”

            “Good job,” I say. “Yadiel?”

            Yadiel’s bad is getting lost on the bus and ending up nearly in Yonkers (I have to get the boys to stop laughing) and his good is buying a new pair of shoes. Zion’s bad is his sister—naturally—and his good is knowing he did all right on his maths test. Michael says his bad is fucking Lyman stopping him again, which makes my blood boil, and his good is Springfield, his cat.

            It’s Evan’s turn, and he doesn’t look up, so I prompt, “Evan? Something bad that happened to you this week, and something good that happened to you.”

            He turns red, and just shakes his head.

            I give it another second, then say, “Maybe we’ll talk about it on the way home. Richie?”

            “My good’s my girlfriend, and my bad’s the fucking Sox.” I grin a little at that, and Richie says, “What about you?”

            I sit back, threading my finger through my hair. It’s definitely gotten curlier over the course of the day. “Ah—well, good is my newest tattoo seems to be healing nicely.”

            “How many of those do you even have now?” Victor says, looking my arms over. He’s asked me about my tattoos before, and I just keep telling him to wait until he’s older.

            Holding them out, I answer, “Twenty two. But they’re all where you can see. Guess I’ll have to start hiding them, unless I want them on my face or neck—which I _do not_. Bad, well….” I sit back, and sigh. “Gentlemen, I have a favour to ask of you.” They all sit up more, looking to me, except for Evan. He hunches a little, and I can tell he thinks it’s going to be about him. Me telling them to be nice to him or something. No, this is entirely selfish. “I had to be at the school this morning, and while I was there, someone stole my wallet.” They all protest, and tell me how much that sucks, and I continue, “Yes, well, I don’t really care about the money—that’s just a lost cause—but there was a picture in it. A picture of my parents. I want it back. Badly. If you could maybe listen and see if anyone says something about it? I know it seems silly, that anyone would talk about a picture, but—it’s very important to me.”

            The boys nod, and Victor says, “We got you, Dre.”

            “Good. All right, have a good weekend, gentlemen.”

            We all gather our things, and I make sure they put the tables back in place. Michael tries to sneak past me, but he’s six five and two hundred pounds. He can’t exactly sneak anywhere. I snatch him by the wrist, looking up at him.

            I murmur, “If I find him before he finds me, I’m going to be extremely unimpressed. Understood?”

            He frowns, then nods once. I nod back, letting him go. I wait for the other boys to filter out, waving goodbye to Richie and his father. Then it’s just Evan and I.

            “Shall we?” I say.

 

I spend the next two hours roaming the South Bronx, searching for Us and thinking about the new problem case that’s fallen in my lap.

            I need more details from Derrell. I’m sure as hell not going to get them from Evan right away. He’s the kind of kid it takes months to crack, if ever, and I only have him until the end of June. I wasn’t able to get him to look me in the eye when he said he didn’t have a way to get a gun. I need to know if one—or several—were actually involved. I want to know more. I _have_ to know more if I’m going to keep people safe.

            The ones who have grown up with violence, who consider it a matter of course—I can deal with those ones. It’s just another challenge. I know how that mentality works.

            But this—this kind of rage inside and nothing on the outside—it frightens me. I’ve no problem admitting when I’m afraid, and someone like Evan genuinely frightens me. I see my past in all of them, but the ones who might just have been born bad…I can’t help but worry about myself. If I’m not just fighting the inevitable.

            I work my way through building after building in Mott Haven. All I do is discreetly _Alohomora_ the front doors to get in, and then I start knocking on the doors of Us’ usual haunts. The ex-girlfriends, his cousins, the crews who know him. He doesn’t run with a specific one, but sometimes it’s by a hair’s breadth. Some people tell me they don’t know where he is, others tell me to fuck off. I get the usual “Who the fuck elected you the white saviour?” rant, and just move on.

            His grandmother knows I’m looking for him. I called the house first, and she wasn’t happy to hear he had missed a meeting. I’m supposed to call her back in fifteen minutes if I don’t find him.

            It’s still hot out, as it comes up on eight. I know, I should have better things to do with my time, but this is important, it’s important to _me_ , and I’m not giving up.

            I come out onto Willis Ave, where there’s competing mini markets on each corner. The lines of the cross walk have almost worn off the road. Waiting for the light to change, I pull out my phone to check for new messages. I’ve texted that little bastard four times, and he still hasn’t gotten back to me.

            With a sigh, I call Derrell, dodging out onto the road as the light changes. After a ring, it goes to his voice box. I think again about what a really terrible idea it is, having him and the new boyfriend and Jason all out tomorrow night. They had better behave.

            “It’s me,” I say. “I need to know more about Evan. Is there a report or anything that you could send me? Or can we work out a time to talk about the particulars? I know I’ll see you tomorrow, but just putting the bug in your ear, so maybe we could work something out on Monday. All right, I—am currently wandering down Willis trying to find that fucking Glenn boy, so I’ll talk to you later about this. Cheers.” I hang up, shoving the phone back in my pocket.

            Us and Evan. All I bloody needed today.

           

I’m nearly to the Harlem River when my phone vibrates. Michael.

            ‘Pls dont go. U @ the wall w 9. He good. Dont go.’

            I have to shake my head. Teenagers keep secrets better than the Ministry of Magic, and that’s an undisputed fact. I type back, ‘Thank you for telling me. Have a good night.’

            I walk down alongside the bridge, until I’m out of sight, then I disapparate. Some people complain about apparating, but I’ve never understood why. They whine about the pressing feeling, the sensation of suffocation. Myself, I end up apparating usually twice a day. Of the magic I use, it’s probably the most frequent tool in my rarely used arsenal.

            I apparate onto the fire escape of an abandoned building just down the street from the wall, and there’s a sudden dropping feeling as it begins to give under my weight. Gasping, I grab onto the side of the building and hold still. Very still. Until the stairs decide not to give out under me.

            It would appear they don’t intend to. Lovely.

            I very carefully make my way down the two stories. I don’t hear anyone, but that doesn’t mean anyone’s around. Not like I’ve been imbued with better hearing than the rest of the populace. Once I’m on the ground, I make for the wall.

            It’s near the river. It looks like one of the buildings I used to see a lot more of in Brooklyn when I first came here in 2002. Before myself and every other white twenty something in a certain wealth bracket took it over. It’s a little stretch of quiet, where people know not to go.

            Where Demetrius Glenn should _not_ fucking be.

            I come around the side of the building, and I see him and Nines sitting on crates over by the wall. The kids come down here when someone gets killed, put another mark on the wall—it’s not a place to just hang out on a Friday night. Not unless you’re planning on doing something.

            From over here, I can see the little glow of lights at the end of cigarettes. Us is just holding his, Nines is sucking them down.

            _Fuck_.

            Nines is closer to my age than he is to Us’. He got out of prison four months ago after doing two years for assault. I know from the boys that he’s usually armed.

            This day. This fucking day.

            On a good week, I’ll maybe end up using my wand outside of the house once, and only when I really have to. Looks like it’s one of those occasions.

            So I pull it out of my boot. Bald cypress, eleven inches, with a roc core. Pity I use it so rarely. It’s an instrument of singular ability. I’ve never used better. Not even the wand I had from Ollivander suited me more.

            With a grimace and a glance at Nines, I cast a shield charm over myself. With a second glance, I strengthen it over my face. I’ve heard about him. I know what he’s likely to do if I get in his way.

            And make no mistake, I _am_ going to get in his way.

            Sticking the wand back in my boot, I make my way across the empty lot. I am silent when I want to be, and they’re laughing and listening to the radio. They don’t see me coming.

            So I surprise them fairly badly when I say, “It’s considered polite to return texts in a timely manner, Demetrius.”

            He pulls his feet off the crate, looking stricken. “What the fuck—“ he breathes.

            Nines has already stood up. He doesn’t exactly make for an imposing figure. I’m six feet, and he might be five seven. Might, mind you. The baggy clothes don’t hide the fact that he’s scrawny. His cheeks are hollow, the way mine are.

            His eyes, though—you can tell a lot about a person by their eyes.

            “What the fuck you think you’re doing?” he says in a gruff voice made all the more raw from years of  cigarettes.

            I ignore him, crossing my arms and focusing on Us. “Why precisely am I at the wall on a Friday night? What is so important that it has to fuck with my night as well?”

            I’ve put him in a terrible position, and I hope he remembers it. He’s torn between wanting to look cool in front of this moron and fear for my safety. I have only had Us the one year, after all. He thinks I can’t take care of myself.

            “Man, who the fuck do you think you are?” Nines barks at me.

            “He’s cool,” Us says quickly.

            I snap my fingers in front of his face, startling him. “No, I am not cool. I am here because you very rudely ignored our appointment and refused to return my messages in order to hang around with this felon.”

            “What did you just call me?” Nines says, stepping closer.

            Us looks like I’ve threatened to kill the president on live television or something. “Dre,” he says hoarsely.

            “You haven’t answered my question,” I say to him. “What was so important about _this_ that you can’t be bothered to return my messages?”

            Nines growls, “Us, I’m about to put the hurt on this fool—“

            I let out a sigh. Fine. Fine! If they want to do it like this, we’ll do it like this. Maybe it’ll shock some sense into Us. It would be the perfect end to my day, anyway.

            Pivoting, I turn my gaze on Nines. “I’m trying to have a discussion with Demetrius. Either wait patiently while I do so, or piss off.” He just stares at me a second, so I shrug. “What about those options are befuddling you so? Either shut up—or leave.”

            His nostrils flare, and Us tries to step between us. I put a hand out, pushing him back behind me firmly. He’s heavier than I am, but he doesn’t know what to do.

            “Nines, he doesn’t get it,” Us pleads. “He’s just some guy from my school, don’t—“

            Not acknowledging him, Nines said to me, “I’ve heard about you. Think you’re some kind of saint, don’t you. Coming over here from Brooklyn to save the poor helpless black boys. Fuck that.” He steps closer. “What? You think you just say something and I’m gonna say, massah how high?”

            Unblinking, I reply, “Putting aside the unfortunate slavery connotations, I suppose I am. Why don’t you go play with someone your own age so I can talk to Demetrius? Or are the grown men just not as impressed with you as a seventeen year old boy would be?”

            We stare at each other a moment.

            He says, “You know what—“ as he reaches for his pocket.

            Us yells, “Don’t, Nines, don’t—“

            “Do,” I say, and it stops him.

            Brow furrowing, Nines says, “You think I won’t?”

            “I’m sure you will. I encourage it. Pull out that gun, and stick it in my face. Watch how entirely unimpressed I am with your ridiculous posturing.” This time I step closer to him. “Do you think you frighten me? Frighten me—sweetheart, you barely register—“

            Now the gun is in my face.

            Funny that I made it this far into the school year. Usually it happens in the first few months. I managed to get all the way past graduation this time. I don’t think I’ve done that since my first year volunteering.

            I don’t react, because why should I? I know my nonchalance will infuriate him further, and I want that. I want him to rage. I want him to react.

            He’s glaring at me. “Say goodbye to your faggot friend, Us.”

            “Nines,” Us begs, desperate. “Don’t—please don’t—“

            “Do,” I repeat. “I dare you—“

            He pulls the trigger.

            The sound is the worst of it. He and I won’t be able to hear without some ringing in our ears for the next few hours, but that will pass. There’s that incredible blast of noise, and I see the little flicker as the bullet tries to leave the gun and explodes in the barrel.

            The energy has to go somewhere, and it throws him back against the wall. I’d enjoy the look of stupefied shock on his face as he falls to the ground, dazed, but this day has been shit, and it’s hard to find enjoyment in anything at the moment. I’m just livid.

            Not that he tried to shoot me. I’m not scared of guns. A decent shield charm will protect anyone from a bullet. My fury comes from the fact that he was near one of my boys with a weapon.

            I walk over to him and without hesitation stomp on his face with all the force in my body. I smash his nose. It would be hard not to, really. He jolts, but he’s too out of it to react. Crouching, I say in a low voice, “I catch you near any of my kids again, I’ll break every bone in your body. Steer clear.”

            Standing back up, I turn my attention to Us, whose brown eyes have gone so wide that they seem mostly white. Jaw hanging, he gasps, “How did—what did—“

            I stand in front of him, hands in my pockets. “Next time you think I don’t mean it when I say I’ll find you, remember this and reconsider the decisions you make.” I grab him by the shoulder, pushing him. “Go home. Your grandmother’s worried sick.”

            He stumbles, casting a look at me, then starts to leave. The further away he goes, the more speed he picks up.

            I lean down to pick up the gun. It’s destroyed. The barrel ripped apart. No use having it around for this cretin. I pull out my wand and vanish it.

            I suppose my work here is finished.

 

Twenty minutes later, I’m walking home from the mini market. I have coffee beans under one arm, and a bottle of wine in the other hand.

            Probably the only decent thing I’ve done with my day.

             I turn the corner, and—stone the crows. Does she not have a home? Or a job? I don’t think I’ve ever walked home and not run into her. Christ, I should have just apparated onto the roof.

            No. Coffee. I now have coffee, and this day is coming to an end. So help me, it will end or I will _make_ it end.

            Leaning against the wall, so there’s no way I can avoid her, Mrs. E smiles at me in that obnoxious way. Like she knows something I don’t. “You’ve had a difficult day,” she says.

            Rolling my eyes, I retort, “What was your first clue? The wine, the coffee, or the bags under my eyes? Tell me more, soothsayer.”

            As I fumble in my pocket for the keys, Mrs. E leans closer. She dresses like that crazy old professor—oh, it’s been so long. I dropped it as soon as I had my OWL. Trelawney, that’s right. Take away the eyeglasses, and Professor Trelawney could have shared a closet with Mrs. E.

            “I’m granting wishes,” she whispers.

            “Are you,” I say, sticking the key in the lock.

            I pull my head back as she grabs my arm. I don’t care for being grabbed. She hisses, “Make a wish.”

            Yanking my arm away, I say, “Good night, Mrs. E.” I make sure the door is secured behind me.

            Crazy old bat. Make a wish. If she was actually a witch, I’d report her. As it is, she’s just a nutter with too much time on her hands.

            I trudge up the stairs, all of a sudden feeling drained. Just like earlier. Like everything has just been taken out of me.

            Make a wish.

            Fine. I wish I didn’t have to stand in front of a gun to get my problem cases to take me seriously. I wish I had the resources and time and money to make a difference to more than six kids in a year.

            I wish Jason would fire Freddy. I wish Jason and Derrell would get back together. I wish I knew who I’ll be bringing home tomorrow night. I wish I knew I’d be waking up next to someone.

            I wish I didn’t have to go to Samatchin tomorrow. I wish I didn’t have to call my mother. I wish my father—

            I wish I wish I wish.

            Wishing is a useless endeavour. And I know better.

            Reaching the third floor, I go to my front door. I’m going to get out of these boots, have a cold shower, and then I’m going to drink copiously from the comfort of my bed. I think this day has merited it. I already know I’ll regret it, but this day.

            I unlock the door, and as I do, I hear the one next door open. A voice says, “Mr. Ma—“

            Closing the door behind myself, I lock it. I don’t want to know. I just don’t.

            It’s nice and cool inside. I keep a cooling charm on the place all the time, unless I open the windows. Occasionally I have to, just so the place doesn’t get stale. I shiver slightly, goosebumps raising over my bare arms.

            There’s a knock on the door. Muffled, a woman’s voice says, “Mr. Malloy?”

            Bugger. She’s seen me go in, so there’s no avoiding it. I toss the bag of coffee beans at the kitchen counter, and set the bottle of wine down on the floor, then I open the door.

            I know her last name is Moreno. She looks tired, the dark curls pulled up on her head falling free in places. And—why is the child with her? It’s what, 9:30? 10:00 maybe? He’s hiding behind her.

            She takes a breath and says, “Mr. Malloy, hi.”

            “Hello.”

            The boy tries to tug away, but I realize she’s got a grip on him. She swallows, and I realize she’s embarrassed. “I’m really sorry about this. I came home and found Dustin in his room with this.”

            She holds out my wallet.

            I stare at it a moment, then I snatch it out of her hand.

            As I go through it, she says, “He swears up and down that he found it in the hallway. That he was going to return it.”

            “No,” I reply, pulling out the picture of Ty and Roderick, “he stole it. He and a bunch of his friends ran into me when I was coming out of the coffee shop across the way, and he stole it from me then.”

            It’s not here. I lift my head. She’s bent down, looking desperately into the face of the sallow, skinny little thing who doesn’t blink much. “You stole it? You _stole_ Mr. Malloy’s wallet?” The boy doesn’t argue, just stares at her with wide green eyes.         

            I hold up the wallet. “Where is it?” I ask him.

            I can see from his face that he knows exactly what I’m talking about. He’s gazing at me, a little afraid. “What?” she asks. “What’s missing? Jesus, Dustin—“

            “Go get it.” When he doesn’t move, I bark, “ _Now_!” He startles, then scrambles away back to his flat.

            His mother looks after him, curls bouncing against her face. “What—what did he take?”

            Grim, I say, “A picture of my mother and father. The only one I have.”

            Face falling, Ms. Moreno says, “Oh—God. God, I don’t know why he’d do that. I don’t know why he’d do any of this—I’m so sorry, I just—“ When he appears back in their doorway, she motions for him in mortification and worry. “Dustin, come here.” He hesitates. “Dustin. I told you to come here.”

            He holds the picture in both of his small hands. I know why he wants to hang onto it, but if that little fucking freak doesn’t get over here in five seconds I’m going over there to take it from him. A gun went off in my face tonight; an eight year old doesn’t frighten me.

            But I am angrier at him than I was at Nines, and that’s an unpleasant shock.

            He makes his feet move, and thankfully he hides the picture away from his mother. I can see the spidery handwriting across the back. ‘Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco, June 5 1985.’

            He doesn’t hold it out to me, so I reach out and grab him by the wrist. He startles, gasping. Taking the picture from his hand, I check it quickly to make sure that it hasn’t been damaged.

            My heart rate slows. Thank God. All in one piece.

            The mother’s speaking to me as I slip the photo into my back pocket, and I speak over her. “Let me be entirely plain. I’m extremely well acquainted with New York’s justice system when it comes to children, and that’s how I know that at eight years old, he can be remanded to detention. And that is _exactly_ what will happen if he ever steals from me again.”

            “Mr. Malloy—“

            “Beyond that, keep him the hell away from me. Bad enough that he follows me around the building like a spy, now he’s actually picking my pocket when I leave the place.”

            “He doesn’t know what he’s doing—“

            I fix her with a gaze. “Tell me you really believe that.” She falls silent, miserable. I bend down, until I’m at the boy’s height. “And you.” He looks at me, with those eyes that don’t blink. I don’t like that. “I catch you watching me again, I catch you near me again—you’ll _wish_ you’d never laid eyes on me. I’ll show you what I really look like if you cross me.”

            He gazes at me.

            “Hey,” the mother says, “that’s enough.”

            Straightening, I say, “You’re bloody right it is.”

            I close the door on both of them and lock it.

            I grab the bottle of wine and make for the bathroom. My head is pounding.

 

The speakers start to get a little garbled. Setting the bottle against my chest, I reach out and pound on the speakers with my fist. That’s all it takes, and the sound clears, ‘Boy with a Coin’ halfway through.

            That sorted, I pick the bottle back up with my left hand and take a good swig. The bottle’s more than halfway finished and my head is _swimming_. It’s enough to take the edge off of the day, but it leaves me maudlin and I know it.

            I’m all huddled in my room under a blanket, in my pajamas. It’s freezing in here, because I like the cold. The sun’s gone down, so I’ve turned on the little lamp beside the bed, the one I found on the roadside. The shade is made of glass, but one of the panes was cracked. I repaired it. People are so quick to throw things away.

            This is my favourite place in the world. My room, and my bed. Everything is decorated in silver and green. Green will always be my favourite colour. That has never changed about me, even as near everything else has. I’ve even painted the ceiling green, and sometimes I make it glow as I go to sleep. It’s like taking a nap in the old Slytherin common room. Strange the things that will relax me.

            I’m wrapped in my blanket, knees pulled up close to my chest. The picture rests against them. I’ve been looking at it, waiting for the clock to finally reach midnight. Tradition, after all. I touch the border of the picture, looking at us.

            It’s us, but the us that I remember, that I believed in. Not the Malfoys that everyone else thinks of. I’m sure people back in England hear the name Malfoy and picture some emotionless genocidal cowards who never did anything but sneer and make bad choices. I can’t say I blame them.

            But this is the family that I remember.

            The three of us, smiling at me from the black and white photo. It’s a little ragged around the edges, but I’ve kept good care of it. Father holds me up between the two of them. I was small for my age, and he could still hold me up with one arm. He points out at the viewer, smiling at me, then turns to look outwards. My father. He was only a little older than me in this photo.

            People always said we were the spitting image of one another, and I suppose that used to be the case. But this is like looking at some strange, alternate universe version of myself. We’re both thin and pale, practically transparent, and we have the same grey eyes. My hair curls like Mother’s, though. It’s more than that, than a single detail. I am so different than him. That is not wishful thinking. It is just the truth.

            Mother is on my other side. She is still and calm as always. Her gaze moves from my father, occasionally to the viewer, but it always comes back to the little boy’s face. She runs a hand over his arm, and they smile at one another.

            They all look out and smile at me.

            That was the happiest day of my life. Even knowing all that I know now, it was still the happiest day of my life. I think it always will be.

            They can say whatever they will back in England, and they do. No one can ever take this from me: I was loved. Fuck the lot of them. I was _loved_.

            God, why did I set that alarm?

            I pick up my phone, shutting it off. Midnight. That means it’s officially June 5. It’s June 5, 2010. That means I’m thirty years old.

            “Happy birthday, Draco,” I say, looking at my five year old self. He just beams between his mother and father, not knowing what’s to come.

            Bugger. I have some more wine, slouching. No use romanticizing the past, or being upset about what people on another continent think. I don’t bother them, they don’t bother me. It’s a beautiful system.

            It’s just a picture. Doesn’t mean anything.

            Means something to me.

            God, I _hate_ my birthday.

            _Make a wish_.

            I laugh to myself sickly. A wish. Fine. It’s my birthday, and my thirtieth at that. I’m due at least one wish, and I’m a little drunk, so why not?

            Lifting the bottle, I study the picture. The perfect day. It’s not what it looks like, but I know what it is. Even if no one else does. Even if no one else wants to.

            Grandly, I proclaim, “I wish—that mine enemy might see me as I truly am.” Snorting, I cover my mouth with the back of my hand. Oh, that really is ridiculous. Pompous, full of myself—at least it was a deeply Malfoy-esque statement. With a shrug, I continue, “Baring that, I’d take a man with green eyes and a nice cock, if the universe is handing out wishes.”

            I giggle a little, and put the picture on the bedside table. My wand is there. I pick it up, and aim it at the ceiling. Am I sober enough to do this?

            Probably not.

            “ _Luminos viridis_ ,” I command.

            My ceiling begins to swirl and glow with green. A little more than I’d usually give it, but given my current alcohol levels, I’d say a job well done. I toss the wand back on the table, turning off the lamp, then scoot down further. I take the occasional pull off the bottle, watching the air above me whirl about in strands of colour.

            My eyelids are heavy. I should probably put a cork on this bottle. I don’t. I manage to get it on the table at least.

            Birthday. Well—even given my track record, it can’t be any worse than today.

            I go to sleep, and everything is cold and green and lovely.

 

I’m waking up.

            No. No, I don’t think that I am.

            Am I still drunk?

            No. It doesn’t feel like I am.

            “Are you okay?”

            Laying on my side, I mutter, “I would be if you’d let me sleep.”

            Wait. That’s strange. I open my eyes.

            Oh dear. Oh—this is not my bedroom. This is—nowhere. This is bright white glowing something and I’m lying on the floor and wherever the hell I am it is not a place I should be. How in the hell did I get here?

            I push myself up to sit, and I remember that someone was speaking. He says, “Wait—“ I turn to look at him, look up, because he’s standing over me, and he actually falls back a step in shock.

            He says, “Merlin’s _pants_ ,” and I gasp, “What the _fuck_.”

            Because we’re nowhere and I’m looking up at Harry Potter.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _No_ ,” he says.

            I say nothing, because I don’t know what’s going on.

            Harry falls back a few steps, shaking his head adamantly. “No. No, no, just bloody _no_ —“ He looks increasingly furious, and he tosses his hands in the air. “Not again—not like—and with _you_? Of all people—“

            He turns away from me, sticking his hand into fly-away black hair.

            I take the opportunity to stand up. I have a good long look at my—well, our—surroundings.

            Everything is white and luminous, far as the eye can see. That’s still not very far. I get a strange feeling of vertigo looking into the distance. There isn’t a wall, but I get the simultaneous impression of nearness and staggering, possibly endless, size.

            We’re bound on both sides by what seem like walls, but I can’t really see them. There’s no corners, no edges, and then they just taper off into that white nothingness.

            I listen for any clue, but there’s nothing.

            Harry turns around, still livid. “Can a man not—could I not have a single bit of normalcy? One! Why now? Why again? How many fucking times do I have to show up here before someone besides me makes that choice? Why do I always have to be the one who makes the choice? Can’t it just _happen_? And why in Gryffindor’s name is it you this time?”

            I just arch an eyebrow. I get the impression that I’m missing something.

            He crosses his arms, frowning. “And why do you look like _that_?”

            I glance down at myself. I’m wearing the same thing I went to bed in—my Sufjan Stevens t-shirt and thin cotton pajama trousers. What’s he going on about? He’s not much better off, in a red tee and boxer shorts with—good lord, are those broomsticks on them?

            Before I can make a comment about that, he goes off again, waving his arms. “You know what? I don’t care. I don’t. But let me just say, from me to whatever forces govern this whole thing, I’ve had better than this.” He gestures to me up and down. I’m disoriented, but not so much that I’m not offended. “The greatest wizard of his age, my mother, my father, and now—you. You? Really? Did I really need that added kick in the teeth?” He turns in a circle, asking angrily, “How did I even die this time?”

            I pull my head back—ah. Okay.

            He crosses his arms again, going back to shaking his head. “You know what? I don’t want to know. I don’t even—“

            “Harry.”

            “Want to know, I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to hear about whatever reason you think I have for going back, I don’t want to know how _you_ died—“

            “Harry—“

            “I don’t care. I don’t ruddy care about a bit of it, and you know why? I’m tired. If some nutter wants to sneak in and _Avada Kedavra_ me in my sleep, bloody well _let him_ and stop making me come to these fucking places! For God’s sake—“

            I yell, “ _Harry_!”

            That shuts him up. I forgot how much I liked that expression on his face as a boy—stupefaction. It was rare that I got it from him—usually it was anger or smugness or embarrassment—but this, when I struck him dumb, that was always a pleasure.

            Calmly, I say, “If you would untwist for a moment instead of doing your best to impersonate a Howler, I’d like to point out that we are not dead.”

            Stunned, he says, “What did you call me?”

            I’m almost snide, and say, ‘What, a Howler?’ but I know what he means, and I’m not a child anymore. “Harry. It’s your name, isn’t it? Stop panicking. We’re not dead.”

            Ah, there’s the look I know. The fury, switching on like a lightbulb. “Panicking? Who says I’m panicking—“

            “Well, you’re doing something, and it isn’t helpful.” I put my hands on my hips, tilting my head up. That same sense of illness, of expanse and right-up-close. “If you’d take a moment to actually examine our situation, it would benefit us both.”

            He sputters for a moment, then says, “I know what this is, I’ve been here before—“

            “Have you?” I say offhandedly. I move in a small circle, trying to figure it out. “What does it look like to you?”

            He’s silent a moment behind me, and I can feel him stewing. “It’s close enough,” he mutters.

            “What does it look like?”

            “It looks like nothing.”

            “Looks like nothing, smells like nothing, sounds like nothing.” I jump up and down. The ground under my feet doesn’t make nearly enough noise. I give my head a single shake. “No—we’re not dead.”

            “How can you be sure?”

            I turn around, giving him a withering glance. “This won’t shock you, Harry, but when I die, I won’t be going to a place that looks like this.” I reach up, brushing my hair from my eyes. After a moment, I walk towards what seems like a wall, arm outstretched. I wait for it to come up against my hand, or to get a shock, or something. Instead, my hand sinks into it, glowing around where my wrist has stopped.

            “Jesus,” he says, and I look back.

            My hand is sticking through the opposite wall.

            I pull it back, wiggling my fingers. No damage done, but I don’t think we should—

            “Wait—“ I say, but he’s already walked right into it.

            He comes out right beside me, then scowls. “Fuck.” He looks up at me, then shrugs. “What?”

            “Good God, you haven’t changed a bit in twelve years, have you?” Harry moves away from me, then starts walking towards the near-and-far nothing. “No, that’s right,” I call after him. “Caution is for mere mortals. I forgot that Harry Potter is indestructible.”

            He gets about ten feet from me, then disappears.

            He walks right back out on the opposite side. He looks down at himself, says, “No, I’m not having it,” turns around, and walks back the way he came.

            I put my hands to my face. So I only hear it when he reappears, cursing a blue streak.

            Dropping my hands, I say, “No. This cannot be possible.”

            “Yes, I’ve already had that reaction, _Malfoy_ —“

            “No, not that,” I say in disbelief. I look at the stubborn tilt of his jaw, the angry eyes, and realize how little has changed. “I grew up and you didn’t. It’s like a terrible joke.”

            “What are you on about?”

            I study him. He’s older, definitely, a few little creases popping up around his eyes, but not much else is different. Same old green eyes peering out from light brown skin, that preposterous black hair that still looks like it would eat any comb that came near it, the way he holds himself, shoulders back like he’s expecting a blow and wants to prove he’s willing to take it. I look at him and it’s like I just left him in 1998.

            “I’ll suggest something to you, only given our past I doubt you’ll listen—“

            “Too right—“

            “But could you just stay still, be quiet, and we’ll figure this out like adults? Or would you prefer to run in and out of the walls a few more times? I’ll wait while you do, but I will say ‘I told you so’ when it doesn’t have the effect you’re hoping for.”

            Harry’s stuck, and lord, it is like dealing with one of my boys.

            “Difficult, isn’t it. You know what the right decision is, and you know the wrong one will make you look like a git, but because the suggestion came from me, you can’t pick. Even knowing how stupid you’ll look if you don’t listen.” I cross my arms. “Take your time. Doesn’t appear as if we’re going anywhere.”

            He glares at me for five long seconds, then closes his eyes. He squeezes them shut, and makes his hands into fists.

            Tilting my head, I ask, “What on earth are you doing?”

            “Trying to get out of here.”

            It takes me a moment, but I realize what he’s up to. “Is that what you look like when you’re _apparating_? I can’t tell if you’re trying to move through space or not shit yourself.”

            He holds on for three more seconds, then lets go with a hiss. “Fine. Not getting out of here like that, so we’ll do it your way.” He fixes me with a scowl. “You’re so clever all of a sudden, what do you think is going on?”

            “I don’t _know_ what’s going on, I just don’t intend to go into histrionics about whatever it is.”

            “Histrionics?” Harry exclaims. “I’m—stuck in the middle of God knows where with Draco bloody Malfoy! I think I’m being perfectly rational about the situation.”

            I don’t point out the fact that he’s behaving like a flustered chicken. “First things first—I imagine we’re both sleeping. Either that, or I have some critiques of your daytime apparel.”       

            Harry looks down at himself, and his cheeks darken at the broomstick boxers. “Yes, I was sleeping.”

            Wrapping an arm around myself, I put my free hand against my cheek. “As am I. England’s five hours ahead—“ I shrug. “Odds are that we’re sharing a dream state, for some unknown reason.”

            “Why?!”

            “Good heavens, man, I literally just said ‘unknown reason.’ Are you always this testy or did I just catch you on an off year?” Harry settles, but barely. God, not even his round spectacles have changed. “Someone put a spell or curse on the both of us, perhaps?”

            “Why the two of us? I haven’t seen you in years. Many, many, good long years. I could have gone a lifetime.”

            “Oh, don’t worry about my feelings. I’m impervious to teenage temper tantrums or adults who are in the midst of having one.”

            His square hands wrap into fists again. “Tantrum?”

            “There’s no reason for it to be the two of us,” I say, thinking aloud.

            “Are you kidding?”

            I look at him, confused. “Sorry?”

            Harry sighs, frustrated. “Inescapable. The lot of you! The war has been over twelve years. Twelve _years_. And can I get a moment’s peace about it? No. One night to myself? Of course not. I get a fucking Death Eater trespassing on my dreams—“

            “Oh yes, I’m thrilled to be here—“

            He sticks his hands into his hair, closing his eyes. “I swear to God, I just want to leave the lot of you behind. All of you. All of the world. Can’t I just be let alone?”

            “You realize I’m actually _here_ , yes? I’m not a dream. If you have anything you’d like kept to yourself, I’d suggest not saying it.”

            “How do I know you’re not a dream?” he challenges. “Showing up, looking like—that!”

            “Like what?” I reply, exasperated.

            He does that thing again, where he gestures to me, top to toe. “Whatever this is. Why are you dressed like that?”

            “I was sleeping, and the man in the Quidditch boxers doesn’t get to judge what I’m wearing. I’d forgotten those were the Cannons colours—“

            “You know what I mean! Oh for God’s sake, I’m talking to someone who’s probably not even there.”

            He comes stalking over to me, and I hold my ground, even as he raises both hands. “Don’t be childish—“

            Harry puts his hands up to shove my shoulders back, but instead he walks right through me.

            I startle, but only because of the reality of the situation. I can’t feel anything when he does it.

            I turn as he says, “See? You’re not even here.”

            “Well done,” I respond. “Saying it makes it so, because that’s just the way you are. Could we please continue on the supposition that this was something done to the both of us and work from there, though?”

            “I’d really rather not talk to you, if it’s all the same.”

            “It’s been a long time, but I know you well enough to be quite certain you couldn’t keep your mouth shut for more than two minutes, so don’t act as though you’re going to sit in a corner in perfect silence. If this place _had_ corners, that is.”

            Harry shakes his head, and walks to get as far from me as possible without going through the barrier. “Could just be a dream.”

            I take a deep breath. Apparently I still need to breathe here, but that could just be force of habit. “Again, you’re smart enough to know that I’m right, and you don’t want to listen because it’s me. So out of curiosity, how long do you intend to be a prat about it? Because if there’s something that we can do to extricate ourselves from this, I say the sooner the better.”

            He scowls for a moment, hands in the pockets of his boxer shorts. “Fine,” he mutters.

            “So—if we’ve been cursed—who would have done it?”

            “I tried to tell you! It could be anyone! It’s always someone!”

            “Would you _stop_ losing your temper? I don’t know what you’re going on about.”

            “Everyone knows—“

            “I haven’t lived in England in eight years, you daft bastard. I don’t know what you’re nattering about.”

            Harry looks at me suspiciously. “You can’t tell me you don’t know.”

            “Know what?”

            “You’re telling me you don’t keep up with anything here. Don’t read the papers, don’t see the news—“

            “Why would I do a stupid thing like that? Do you think I want anything to do with any of you lot either? Are you telling me someone’s trying to hurt you? Put you in the paper? What? You have to actually use your words with me, Harry.”

            He doesn’t look like he believes me, but he says, “All of it. There’s always someone coming after me, or the others—hurt us, get a story, get a piece, there’s always _someone_ doing _something_ , I can’t get a moment’s peace—“

            “Yes, you said that bit.” I scratch the back of my neck. “So is this your way of telling me you don’t know who could have done this because there’s too many possibilities?”

            “Yes,” he practically spits out.

            “Well, that puts us at a disadvantage. Didn’t I hear you were an Auror? Don’t you know something about—dream states or connections or whatever this is?” After a moment, I sigh, “Why are you staring at me?”

            Harry’s green eyes don’t blink. “You must be joking.”

            “For Christ’s sake, I _don’t know_ what you’re talking about—“

            “What did you say?”

            “I said I don’t know what you’re—“

            “No. You said, ‘For Christ’s sake.’”

            “And?”

            He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head, and given the peculiarity of the situation, it’s a possibility. “That’s a muggle curse.”

            I repeat, “And?”

            “What happened to you?” Harry says, dumbfounded. Then, before I can even think about answering, he puts up his hands. “I don’t want to know. I really don’t. You—are just another terrible part of a terrible past, and I don’t give a shit if you’re real or a dream, or whatever you are. If this is someone’s doing because—Merlin only knows why they do these things to me—if this is someone, I’ll have their heads. Who could it be? Why?”

            He pushes his hair back, and I get a start. His scar.

            You know, the absolute truth—I forgot about his scar.           

            If you’d told me years ago that I’d forget about Harry Potter’s infamous scar, I’d have laughed. It’s an inseparable part of the mythos, isn’t it? But I really haven’t thought about it in—years. Wow, I am definitely getting old.

            Harry’s muttering to himself, barely paying any attention to me. “Jeffreys is in jail…Miranda, maybe, but I thought she was in France…not that obsessive blond girl—no, maybe her—“ He puts his hands on top of his head. “I don’t know. The fact that it’s _you_ of all people—“ Harry glances at me, narrowing his eyes. “You know what I was thinking? Before I went to bed last night?”

            “Of course. No, obviously I don’t—“

            “Someone mentioned you, and I thought about what an absolute joy it’s been, you being gone all these years. So of course you have to show up now. Worse than a Boggart, you are.” I wonder if he thinks he’s hurting me. He’s not. I wonder why he’s trying so hard. Harry puts up his hands, pivoting away from me. “Just—of all the people in the world that I could be stuck somewhere with, the last I’d wish for is _you_.”

            Wish.

            _Make a wish_.

            Stunned, I say, “Oh fuck.”

            I bend over, putting my hands on my thighs. No. No no no. This is unbelievable. I am so dense. I am so clueless and stupid and arrogant.

            I realize he’s speaking. “I said, what are you on about?”

            Gazing at the blank floor, I reply, “This is going to be very hard for you to digest, but this isn’t about you.” I push myself to straighten, and even though we’re dreaming or caught on another plane or whatever the hell we’re trapped in, I still feel myself blush. “No, this is—my fault.”

            He glares at me, then returns, “The only difficult thing for me to believe is that you’d actually admit to it, not that you’d fucked something up.”

            “Very magnanimous,” I say, rubbing a hand over my face. I groan, my other hand on the back of my hip. “That legendary charity and kindness of yours continues unabated, I see.”

            “Malfoy. What did you do?”

            “I didn’t do anyth—that is, I did, but I didn’t realize—“ No. Full responsibility. I drop my hands, and look right at him. “It’s my birthday. I made a wish.”

            His brow furrows. I can tell he thinks I’m mental. “Why the fuck would you wish for this?”

            “No! Good lord, no.” I take another look at him, and repeat strongly, “No. I—I was coming home, and there’s this nutter who always hangs about outside my flat, saying she does spells and magic and I thought she was just a regular, that she was just insane. She never seemed _real_ , not in the last eight years, so I thought she was—damn it. No, she’s something. I don’t know what, but she’s something.”

            “What does she have to do with it?”

            “I was coming home, and she snuck up on me, grabbed my arm, told me to make a wish. I didn’t think anything of it!” I protest as he growls with disgust. “Why would I? Eight years, she’s never had a wand, never said a single thing to even make me suspect—“

            “So a witch or a something told you to make a wish, and you wished us both into this?”

            “Again, don’t be an idiot. I brushed her off, I went home, and I had a bad day, so I was a little drunk—“

            Harry says, “Oh, fantastic. I’m here because you made a drunken wish—to what, even? Why the hell would you wish me here?”

            “I _didn’t_. I was drunk, and it turned midnight, and I thought of her saying ‘make a wish’ so I just said something as a laugh.”

            Raising his brows, Harry says, voice almost a threat, “You said _what_ as a laugh?”

            “I don’t know! I was drunk and falling asleep—it was just a bit of nonsense. What did I say? It was ridiculous, I was laughing about it. Something about my enemy, or my enemies?”

            “Well, now we’re getting closer.”

            “It doesn’t make any sense.”

            “How do you think?”

            “That it would be you,” I answer. I snap my fingers, and point at him. “I wished that my enemy would see me as I am. I think.”

            “And what does that mean when it’s at home?”

            Spreading my arms, I repeat, “I—was—drunk. I have no idea what it means.”

            “Well, figure it out, because I don’t intend on being here until the end of time.”

            I lift my hands, feeling a bit helpless. “For all I know, the thing went wrong because I’d been drinking. It would explain why you’re here.”

            “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

            Narrowing my eyes, I say, “Don’t be ridiculous. You think _you’re_ my enemy? We were children. It was twelve years ago. I haven’t thought of you in so long—I literally forgot about your scar until just now when you lifted your hair.”

            “The hell you did—“

            “We were children,” I say again. “My enemy—I hate to pop the bubble that is your massive ego, Harry, but someone put a gun in my face today and pulled the trigger. I have slightly more pressing concerns than the Boy Who Lived—“

            He snaps, “Don’t call me that.”

            I pause. Even with how difficult he’s being, there’s an edge to that. I nod, and say, “All right.”

            That look again! Incredulity and wariness rolled together. “Why are you being like that?”

            “I can’t tell if you’re more content to complain about people trying to stick you in the past, or actually being stuck in the past. I’m thirty years old, as of—a few minutes or hours ago, whenever this is. I grew up. I moved on. The idea that you are still my enemy is irrational.” I shudder, and say to myself, “Frankly, life might be more productive if I was stuck in a place like this with Nines for a while.”

            I walk away, just to try and get my thoughts together.

            As I see it, there are three possibilities: first, there’s a way to break the spell, and we get out of here. Second, it breaks when we wake up naturally. Third, someone else has to get us out of this.

            I really don’t want to consider a fourth option, where this is permanent. I know I made a wish for a green eyed man, but this is just malicious wish fulfillment.

            “Someone shot at you?”

            “Yes.”

            “What have you gotten yourself into now?”   

            The tone of his voice makes me laugh. It makes me a little tired too, as I face him again. This is everything I’ve avoided for years. I left England so I wouldn’t have to deal with the constant assumptions, the disgust, the hatred. “It didn’t occur to you for a second that I wasn’t the one in the wrong, did it? I must be involved in something sinister.”

            Stubborn, Harry says, “I’ve known you too long. A leopard doesn’t change his spots.”

            Oh.

            “Oh, I’ve just had a terrible notion.”

            “What now?” he sighs.

            Cringing, I lay out my hypothesis. “I wished…for my enemy to see me as I am. What if that means that my enemy has to actually—empathize with me? See me for the person I am, instead of the person I was?”

            Harry looks at me a moment, then says, “Well, I suppose we’ll be here until the end of time, because if there’s one person who’d never change, it’s you.”

            “We’re definitely in trouble,” I agree. “But I don’t think the obstacle is that I’m the one who hasn’t changed.”

           

I glance over. I’m keeping a silent count.

            I swear, because I said he couldn’t keep quiet for more than two minutes, he’s being difficult and shooting for more. We’ve just passed four.

            He went as far from me as he could and sat down, saying that he didn’t want to hear another word. I understand that sometimes people need space, so I’m letting him stew. I sit here, my arms around my knees, and I watch him from the corner of my eyes, waiting for him to break.

            Harry Potter. What an unthinkable clusterfuck.

            Despite the miserable expression on his face, he does look quite well. I remember the day I met him. He was tiny, even smaller than me, and I was little for my age. There was something unhealthy about his smallness, though. Like he’d been starved. By the end of that first year, he’d filled out a bit, something that I suppose I noticed offhand, but didn’t really think of until later.

            He’s ended up about average height. A few inches shorter than me, and I’m six foot, so he’s maybe five eight, five nine. He’ll never be a big man, but if the lean muscles on his arms and legs are any indication, he works out a bit, something that I will never, ever be bothered with.

            He’s handsome, the bastard, and probably would be more so without those brows furrowed. Those eyes were always such a shock, vivid green against skin like coffee with two creams. His nose has gone a little crooked, which I don’t remember, like maybe it’s been broken and he went to a regular physician instead of a healer. Looks good on him, actually.

            What doesn’t look good is that red shirt with bright orange boxer shorts. Straight men and sports paraphernalia. I do _not_ understand.

            Ah, here we go. He’s squirming. Just a bit, but he’s going to speak, any moment now. I do my best to look innocent, gazing away at the wall of nothingness, thinking that this really is the cap on possibly the _worst_ day.

            Harry bursts out, “It is not going to happen.”

            I look at him, expression blank. “What?”

            “You know what. I am not—with you—no.”

            “What exactly made you this bitter? Was it a particular event or just an accumulation of things?”

            “I’m not bitter, I’m realistic.”

            “Fine.”

            He growls. “Don’t be passive aggressive.”

            “Then stop being so aggressive.”

            He unfolds, splaying his legs and looking at me with befuddlement. “What on earth is this act that you have going on?”

            I roll my eyes. “You’re right. We _are_ going to be here until the end times if you can’t accept the simple fact that people can change.”

            “I believe people can change. I don’t think _you_ can. No matter what you might be—wearing.” He looks me over, then juts his chin at my left side. “I see you haven’t been able to cover _that_ up.”

            I hold out my left forearm for display. Even with all my many tattoos, a blank space remains. The outline of the Dark Mark. It’s surrounded by colour, the brightest, most beautiful colours, but where the mark was, my skin is bare.

            Shaking my head, I say, “I left it that way.”

            “Sure you did.”

            I shrug. “Doesn’t matter what you think. Well, if it’s what gets us out of here, I suppose it might, but I’m not going to lie to you about the thing.” I cross my arms, resting them on my knees. “Do you have any? Tattoos?”

            “Why do you care?”

            “Making conversation. If we’re not going to talk about me, we’ll talk about your favourite subject.”

            “And what do you think that is?”

            “Yourself.”

            Glowering, Harry says, “Fuck yourself sideways, Malfoy.”

            “So—are you not an Auror, then?”

            He shakes his head, looking away into the not-distance. “No, I’m not an Auror.”

            “What are you doing, then?”

            “None of your business.”

            “All right.”

            We don’t say anything for a long moment.

            This is ridiculous. If I’ve put us here, it’s my responsibility to get us out. The problem is, I can lead a horse to water, but I can’t make him drink.

            Scrubbing my hands over my face, I mutter, “This is going to be so much more difficult than Longbottom.”

            “What?”

            “Nothing,” I say, dropping my hands. I pull my legs up under myself, straightening my shoulders.

            “What are you doing?”

            Taking a deep breath, I shake my hair back from my face. He won’t make this easy, but I have to start somewhere. “What I have to, and what I should have done many years ago.”

            I weave my fingers together, stretching out my arms. That done, I put my hands on my knees, and look him square in the eyes.

            “Harry—I am sorry. I was a terrible child, and a terrible teenager, and a terrible young man. I treated you and many, many other people dreadfully. I made so many mistakes that I regret, deeply, and I will never be free of that, nor should I be. I do what I can to be better, to be the person I wish I always had been, and I don’t expect forgiveness, not from you or anyone else. All I can offer is my word—little as it might mean to you—that I know what I did, and the person I am now is vastly different from the person I was. I am so sorry.”

            I let go of my breath, and wait for his response.

            After a moment of not moving, Harry says, “What are you, in a cult?”

            I raise my eyes to the whatever-it-is above us. “No, I _was_ in a cult.” I lift the arm where the Dark Mark used to be. “Remember?”

            He inhales deeply through his nose, looking right back at me. “Listen, Malfoy. Whatever act you have going on, whatever it is you tell people around you to get through the day and pretend like you’re normal, I’m not buying. I’ll never buy it. People like you—you put on this dog and pony show about being _so_ sorry, and I know it’s a lie. Don’t waste your breath.”

            “What _happened_ to you?” I ask again.

            Because I remember how obnoxious Harry Potter was. No matter the adulation the world threw at him, there’s no escaping the fact that he was also a self centered bastard too. And he was brave, and willing to take a chance on people. That narcissism hasn’t gone away, but I can practically see the wall he’s put around himself.

            He raises a brow and answers, “I grew up.”

            Shrugging, I reply, “I think I got the better end of the bargain, then.”

            “I wish you’d just—stop. Can you just stop?”

            Confused, I say, “Stop what?”

            “The act. This—“

            He does it again, and I lift a hand. “Would you cease doing—“ I gesture at him from head to toe. “Are we discussing my demeanour? My outfit? My tattoos? What does—“ I make the motion again. “This mean?”

            “All of it.”

            “Well, I can’t stop, because this is me. This is how I look, and act, and if you don’t like it, go soak your head. The sooner you accept that I’ve grown up and moved on—as you should have, incidentally—the sooner we’ll be clear of this.”

            “I don’t believe you.”

            “Then get used to looking at _this_. Because it may be awhile.”

            Harry leans back on his hands, seeming unimpressed. I can see him searching for something to say. Probably something to try and hurt me with. His right brow raises marginally—guess he’s found something.

            “How’s the family?” he says conversationally.

            Well, that would do it.

            Level, I say, “I’m not sure. I speak to Mother twice a year or so. I will have tomorrow, because it’s my birthday—I’ll expect your card in the mail, by the way—and Father, well—I suppose I’ll hear about him then.”

            “Not been to see him lately?”

            I cock my head, gazing at him without blinking. “You think you can goad me about my father? My father’s a murderer, and a criminal, and he’s in jail. I know. What else have you got?”

            That throws him off his guard. His eyes squint behind his glasses, like he’s trying to figure out what game I’m playing. I’m not playing games. I wouldn’t, not when it comes to my family.

            “I heard you went to see him.”

            “Once. Since the trial, I have seen him once. Out of twelve years.”

            “Twelve years,” he says with some satisfaction. “Twelve years in Azkaban. Suppose he’s in the home stretch now, isn’t he? Eight more, wasn’t it?”

            With a shrug, I say, “I don’t know what you’re sounding so smug about. You testified at the trial in our defense.”

            His face shuts down completely. “For your mother. For you. _Not_ him.” Harry shudders. “I should have let all of you drown. Like rats.” He gives a sudden crooked smile. “Or ferrets.”

            “You’d drown ferrets?” I reply easily.

            “You know what I—“ He lets out an exasperated breath.

            “Ferret Face,” I say. “I remember. Yes, hilarious that Voldemort’s right hand man turned me into a ferret and bounced me off the walls like a bloody ball. Let’s relive that moment as frequently as possible.”

            He’s staring at me again. What have I done now?

            Right. I let my head fall back, and say, “Voldemort. Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort.” I tuck my toes further under myself. The temperature here is not warm or cold, but I feel like I should be cold, just in my jams. “What do you know. Unlike Beetlejuice, he doesn’t appear if you say his name repeatedly.”

            “Beetle who?”

            “Oh, a terrifying old wizarding legend,” I say with a straight face. “Demon. Say his name three times, he appears to wed your teenage daughter.” I bend forward, putting my hands on the floor. “Why should it bother you that I say his name? You were always saying it, as I recall.”

            “People don’t…they still don’t say it.”

            “Yes, well, he didn’t live in their house. He didn’t torture them. I lived it, I have to live with the memories, so I’ll say his name if I want to. Doesn’t matter. He’s dead. I’m not going to fear a dead man.”

            Perhaps I’ve grown a third head now. Harry says, “Where _are_ you?”

            I still at the question. I give my head a single shake. “Not going to tell you that.”

            He looks pleased. “Want me to see you as you really are, eh? Knew you’d be keeping secrets.”

            “If I told you, I think you’d tell people. I don’t want _The Daily Prophet_ showing up on my doorstep, asking me for an exclusive. I don’t want angry relatives haranguing me, asking for me to beg forgiveness for things I did as a child. I regret what I’ve done, but it’s not the totality of me. At some point, there has to be distance between the past and I. So no, I’ll not be telling you where I am.”

            “Not England, and you said you’re five hours behind. So America, then.”

            Fuck. He was so busy being near hysterical that I forgot he’s clever at the most inopportune times. “Could be Canada.”

            “America,” Harry says with irritating certainty. “So you’ve been in America since you left. Ran off at the first opportunity, and there you stayed.”

            “Yes, because there was _such_ a future for me in England. I did my time.”

            “House arrest,” he says dismissively.

            I counter sharply, “Four years.” He looks at me, and I hear the edge in my own voice. “Four years in the house where he was. Where he—“ I stop myself. I won’t give him the gratification of seeing me upset. “I did my time.” I run my hand over the floor. There’s no shadow on it. No shadow on anything. I don’t care for that. “And where are you? I’m assuming you never left.”

            “Why should I tell you?”

            “Well, your favourite subject—“

            “Bugger off. I am not my favourite subject.”

            “So what is?”

            “What?”

            “What’s your favourite subject?” He keeps gazing at me in disbelief, so I venture, “Quidditch? Women? Thestrals? What do you like to talk about?”

            “What are you doing?”

            “Trying to initiate conversation. If someone doesn’t want to answer a question, ask them a different one. I’m trying not to alienate you, seeing as you’re so intent on doing it yourself.”

            “Do you just have a list of things that you keep in mind, so you can fit in with everyone without seeming completely evil?”

            That’s a little far, even for him. “As someone who’s seen complete evil, I think even you know that’s a stretch. I’m probably, oh, ten percent evil at this point, and that’s when I haven’t had my coffee.” I fold my arms. “I suppose when I first started on my own, I did have a list. Things to remember, so I didn’t seem insane. Not that it worked very well, in the beginning. But then—life moved on. I moved on. I just…lived. There’s no list in my head, it’s just…common sense.” I frown. “You’re in a terrible way, aren’t you.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Something happened. Or a lot of things.”

            He rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

            “Normally, I wouldn’t say anything, because that’s your concern and not mine, but if we’re really stuck here, I have to worry about your ability to empathize with me. That’s going to be difficult if you’re this far gone.”

            “I—am not—far gone,” Harry says through gritted teeth. “I just don’t want to talk to _you_.”

            “What about _me_?” I exclaim. “You haven’t seen me in twelve years! Why this level of animosity? Or are you like this with everyone?”

            “You merit it, Malfoy.”

            “I really don’t. I did terrible things, for which I am very apologetic, but I served my time—“

            “You got out early—“

            “For good behaviour, and then I left you all alone. I went away, where you wouldn’t have to see me, and I wouldn’t have to see you. I’ve not bothered you in over a decade. So why are you so—angry with me?”

            Harry gives me a hard look. “Because you’re _you_. And the day I believe you’ve changed is the day I abandon everything to hunt for Nargles.”

            I take a deep, deep breath. I thought Us was a problem case. I’m starting to feel like taking a bullet to the face might have been easier than this.

            Suddenly, Harry lifts his head. “Oh thank _God_ ,” he says, scrambling to his feet.

            “What?”

            “Do you not hear that?” He looks genuinely happy for the first time since we got here. A relieved smile on his face, he turns to me, and points upwards. “My alarm’s going off. I can hear it. So guess what—I don’t have to deal with you for another—“

 

I grab the night table as I wake, and the wine bottle falls off it, thumping to the ground.

            My heart’s pounding. That was so strange. Oh, Jesus, my head’s pounding too.

            The room above me is still green and glowing. I throw back the sheets, sitting up so I can look at the clock. It’s 2:30.

            Bending down, groaning at the feeling that produces in my head, I pick up the wine bottle. I shouldn’t be hungover already. I was only drinking two and a half hours ago. Maybe the—whatever it was had something to do with it.

            Putting the bottle on the table, I pick up my wand and do a quick cleaning charm on the spilled wine. That done, I point the wand at the ceiling and mutter, “Fuck off, would you?”

            The room goes dark.

            I toss the wand back on the table, and fall onto my back. I put my cold hands to my forehead.

            I’d like to think that was just a dream. But I’m not going to pretend. It sure as hell didn’t feel like a dream. I think I actually just spoke with Harry Potter.

            There’s a birthday present I never wanted or asked for.


	3. Chapter 3

Of course she’s nowhere to be found.

            I stand outside the apartment, arms crossed. Unbelievable. Eight years, and I cannot remember a single time when that old bat wasn’t lurking around outside. This morning? Gone.

            That might actually be for the best. I didn’t get much sleep after the dream or whatever I should call it, and my head’s a little sore from all the wine. I’m already regretting the choices I’m going to make when I go out tonight with my friends. No shots. I don’t care how insistent Leanna is, I will not be doing shots this year.

            Tapping my foot against the ground, I turn and go back inside.

            It’s nine in the morning, and I would have already been at Samatchin if I wasn’t trying to find Mrs. E first. I can’t believe she got by me. All these years, and she was really a witch. Or something. Whatever she is, she has to be reported, and I’m going to bloody do it too if she’s going to hide. If she’d just been hanging around I could have spoken to her, asked her what in the hell she thought she was doing. As it is, I’m going to report this. To hell with her.

            I check the mail before I go, pulling out piece of junk mail and tossing it in the recycling bin. As I do, I feel eyes on me.

            I look up the stairs. The Moreno boy is peeking at me from over the landing.

            Pointing at him, I bark, “I swear to _God_ —“

            He turns and flees.

            That creepy little thief. It never occurred to me that he’d graduated to stealing. All he’s done the past year or so is just show up everywhere, staring at me like a ghoul. Children. I can’t stand them. Teenagers, they’re not so terrible. Children, though—I can’t help but shudder.

            Well, no more putting it off.

            I go downstairs to the laundry room, and I’m in luck. The machine’s on. Hopefully there’s no one in there. Opening the door, I slip inside. Alone. Excellent.

            Just to be safe, I take a moment to compose myself. I thread my fingers through my hair, tucking it back behind my ear. I don’t really care if anyone on the street sees my scar. It’s out in the regular world that people ask questions about a thing like that. I’m dressed entirely in black, skinny jeans and a short sleeved button up with a tie. My newest boots, the sixteen holes, polished to a high glare. It’s not exactly an outfit befitting the weather, but I don’t want to look like—well, the rest of them.

            _They’re just people._

_Yeah, and I’m just a thirty year old blonde with a nice arse and no past._

            Sighing, I shut my eyes and focus on the Samatchin Street Terminal.

 

The second I open my eyes, I’m being waved forward brusquely. “Keep moving, keep moving.”

            I don’t have to be told twice. Last thing I need is to celebrate my birthday by being splinched.

            I walk across the short arrival platform, bounding down the steps, and in a moment I’ve joined the crowd on the magical high street of Brooklyn.

            The first thing to hit me is the sheer amount of people. I’m a New Yorker, I’m used to crowds. This, though, is always on another level. There’s no road down the middle, just all of us walking hither and yon with no clear indication of which side of the street to walk on. Everyone takes it as an opportunity to just do as they please, which I don’t like. Immediately, I want to hunch in on myself, and it’s only a lifetime of training that keeps my head up and my shoulders back.

            The second thing is the noise. I can spend eight hours straight listening to tattoo machines, but this mass of voices and music and animals is a bit much. It’s always busy and loud here, but Saturdays are the absolute worst—well, I’ve heard Friday nights are as well, but I’ve never tried to brave that.

            Above me, the buildings tower sixty stories or more. They rise up out of old brick structures that have been here since the city was called New Amsterdam. Across the wide street, up in the air, banners have been spread between buildings advertising Comully Day, which is apparently next weekend. I have no idea what it is. I don’t want to know. There are haphazard balconies hanging off some of the buildings that make my stomach churn to look at. They must be safe—building regulations here are much stricter than they are in places like Diagon or Knockturn—but after eight years living with regulars, it makes me nervous.

            Overhead are lanes for brooms and vacuums. The lanes are marked off on the sides of the buildings. The lower to the ground, the slower you are. Up top, that’s practically unregulated, and you go at your own risk.

            The vacuums, by the way. Every time I see them, I have to roll my eyes. They’re always old models, like from the 1950s, but restored and souped up. Fucking hipsters.

            Don’t get me wrong—I live in Williamsburg. I _am_ a hipster. But there is nothing more obnoxious than magic hipsters.

            I see young men with shirts that have pictures of themselves wearing the same shirt, ad infinitum, all them making the same stupid face, posing this way and that. The mustaches are out of _control_ —some of them span to the sides of their faces, making double or triple loops. So many women are wearing capes with mustaches. I don’t understand what the fascination is with sodding mustaches. Nearly every person under thirty is wearing plastic framed glasses in the most ridiculous, hideous colours, and their tattoos crawl all over their bodies. At least I had the good sense to get ones that would stick. Most of these people didn’t get truly decent magical tattoos, so they don’t stay in one region, they just flit all over their body. Maybe you like it now, but when you’re forty and there’s a sparrow flapping its merry way across your forehead, you’re going to feel pretty damned stupid.

            Good grief, what is—there’s a young woman with cat eyed glasses that are meowing softly, shoving a pamphlet into my hand. “Vegan Witches League! Stop the exploitation of animals, switch to animal free potions!”

            I can’t help myself. I say, “I’m deeply concerned about deforestation, and I find the use of so much paper very, _very_ troubling.” I put the pamphlet right back into her surprised hand and keep walking, trying not to smirk.

            It’s not as hot as it could be. In Williamsburg, it’s 90 degrees, but they lower the temperature in the bubble. All the people always on the street, they’d have to or we’d drown in our own sweat. Still, I push the knot of my tie up a little, refusing to give any inch of ground to the heat.

            I have to slip through spaces, avoid witches and wizards barrelling by with bags, studiously avoid the eyes of activists who want to repeal the 2nd, or who want to impeach the governor, or who want people to come to a rally in support of her. Lifting my hands at one point, I have to actually spin around a tenacious hawker who’s selling miniature Obamas, the kind I used to collect of Quidditch players I liked.

            There’s a space on the side of the street. Not even thinking, I move towards it, needing a breather.

            I stumble out onto the empty semi-circle outside of Teseli’s. My shirt has come a little untucked. With a shake of the head, I straighten my clothes, tucking everything back into place. I comb my hair out with my fingers, taking a grim look at the writhing crowd. Everyone seems so comfortable there. To me it just seems like chaos.

            A smooth voice from behind says, “Mr. Malloy.”

            I turn around, and without hesitation, I bow the way I was taught. One arm sweeping backwards, as though I was tossing aside my robes, back ramrod straight, eyes respectfully lowered. “Mistress Teseli.”

            As I straighten, I see her smile. I don’t know what it is about me, but she has always liked me, and Mistress Teseli—master wandmaker of the eastern seaboard—is not known for liking people. She’s clad in a mustard-yellow wrap dress, matched by her turban. She has a pink scar that cracks across her deep brown forehead, and the few times I’ve bothered sticking around the Street, I’ve heard supposition as to how she received it. It’s never occurred to me to ask.

            “Your form—as always—is flawless,” she says, and holds out a hand, like a queen.

            I’ve no issue treating her like one. I’ve little use for magical kind—I find them a silly, frivolous people by and large—but I respect her greatly. I take her hand, bending to kiss the back. She smells of petrichor.

            Her hand shifts in mine, squeezing my fingers briefly before she withdraws. Looking me over, she says, “It is your birthday, Mr. Malloy.”

            Standing with my hands behind my back, I nod. “Indeed it is.”

            Her black eyes take in my face. “Thirty.”

            “Yes, madam.”

            “Thirty is a good year,” she says, and her voice is intoxicating. I am gay as the day is long, but I would sit at her feet and listen to her adoringly. She has the blood of something not quite human in her. Some American manner of Veela, perhaps? But her voice—measured and sure, like velvet over skin. “I recall thirty. The worst of doubts melt away like butter in the sun. You should be grateful. This is a good time for you.”

            “I hope so.”

            “I don’t suppose you came to visit, did you.”

            With a shake of the head, I say, “I know far better than to disturb you during working hours, madam. I confess, the crowd—“ I glance at them, unsure how to finish the sentence.

            “They’re your own kind. Eventually you’ll have to admit that.” I must make a face, because she smiles enough to show teeth. She looks dangerous when she does, and I understand why the children fear her. “Darling boy. I’ll remember your stubbornness when I’m proven right.”

            “If they were all like you, I’d gladly proclaim them as kin.”

            Her smile changes from dangerous to coy. She glances me over, then says, “How does my work fare?” I remove my wand from the inside of my boot, a thing she notes with a nod of approval. I’ve heard her opinion of people who run about with their wands sticking out of their pockets. She looks at the wand with affection. “Bald cypress from my ancestral home. You should feel honoured it chose you.”

            She always says that. As always, I reply, “I am.”

            Her dark eyes go sly. “Show me.”

            No. No, not on a Saturday—

            The side of her mouth lifts. “For me, Draco. Indulge an old woman.”

            Like any time she asks me to do something I don’t want to, I remember the first time I walked into her shop, nervous, palms damp. Things could have gone very differently.

            So I pivot, raising my wand above the crowd, and roar, “ _Expecto Patronum_!”

            When things have settled down about two minutes later, I turn back around. I’m blushing, but serves me right. Spinning my wand in my fingers, I toss it up, then catch it, and slip it back in my boot.

            Mistress Teseli is clapping softly. “Lovely as always.” She holds both hands out to me this time, and I take them. She narrows her eyes. “You haven’t called your mother yet, have you.”

            “No, I—“ I glance down the street at Oddwin’s. Even through the crowd, I can see the lines are out the doors of the massive building. I sigh, then smile politely. “I’m afraid I have to face the hoards first, then I’ll go to FCI.”

            After a moment, she says, “No. Come back here. That will be my birthday gift to you. You can use my fire.”

            “Oh—that’s most kind—“

            She tilts her head down, and I see she’s not to be argued with. “My gift to you.”

            It’s the first thing to happen in maybe the last day to make me feel genuinely good instead of treading water. “As always,” I say, “I do not warrant your generosity, but I will accept it nonetheless.”

            Letting her go, I bow again. She nods, and slips inside.

            Well, that’s one thing off my list.

            Now I just have to face Oddwin’s.

 

Three hours later, a voice hollers, “MALFOY!”         

            I extricate myself from the plastic chair, where I’ve been stuck between an extremely wide wizard and a sleeping witch for the last half hour. There’s a two inch stack of papers in my hands. Warily, I approach the counter of the grey walled, humid room.

            I’ve never gotten through an encounter at Oddwin’s unscathed. My first three times here, I was put in a room and interrogated for several hours because Mother sent me things that were on the banned list. I had to threaten to never pick up a package from her again if she ever sent me another stuffed house elf head. She’s the only one who sends me packages, and every year the list gets updated. I send it to her, but she doesn’t always pay attention to it. At this point, I’ve been pulled aside so many times that I’m certain there’s a red flag on my file.

            The extra hoops and ladders are always after at least two hours of waiting and paperwork, and that’s on a good day. I came to Oddwin’s once on a Saturday when I was twenty three, and swore never again. Of course, Derrell and Evan threw a wrench in that plan. I’ve signed my name a total of forty three times today. I counted.

            The real irritation is that they do it all by computer anyway, so I don’t know what the hell this nonsense is for. Magics. Silly, inefficient creatures.

            A fat little wizard with very little hair sits high on a stool behind a computer that looks like it might have been the height of technology approximately the same year I left for Hogwarts. The fluorescent lights over us flicker slightly, and I can hear them buzz. “Malfoy, Draco?” he says gruffly.

            “Malfoy, Draco,” I agree.

            “Age?”

            “Thirty.”

            “Incorrect.”

            Frowning, I look at him. “Beg pardon?”

            Gazing at the computer screen over half-moon spectacles, he says, “According to this you won’t be thirty for another hour and twenty three minutes.”

            Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I hold up the thick pile of paper. “Well, it didn’t ask for my time of birth on any of the forms, so if that’s really an issue for you, I am _more_ than happy to sit here for another hour and twenty three minutes. Whatever is most convenient for you.”

            He grunts. “Country of birth?”

            “England.”

            “Wand?”

            “Bald cypress, roc core, eleven inches.”

            “Parents?”

            We go through the same things I’ve written repeatedly on the forms. People tell me that things were far more lax ten years ago, but I arrived here in 2002, when the bureaucracy had risen into full swing, and so far as I can tell, it’s never receded.

            He quizzes me for ten minutes on my life—my grandmother’s maiden name, the date of my release, the day I arrived on American soil—and I don’t get a detail wrong. Other than the fact that apparently I won’t be thirty for another hour and thirteen minutes.

            Finally, begrudgingly, he says, “Papers. Proceed to the next room.”

            I pass him the stack, giving him a calm smile. “Have a lovely day.” For a moment, I think the jobsworth is about to call me back for a cavity search, but I manage to move into the next room before he can call security and charge me with being patient in this god awful place. My friends complain about the DMV, but I don’t think they _really_ understand how much worse it could be.

            The pickup room is a different kind of weird. The room is dimly lit by candles, and I’m suddenly chilled. The walls look like they’re made from earth. We’re ten stories above the ground—hypothetically—but I always wonder if maybe we’re not.

            The man behind the table is dressed in a brown robe, a hood over his face. The package my mother has sent, which I assume was wrapped flawlessly before leaving England, has been opened and resealed God knows how many times, holes in the silver paper, something brown splashed over the bedraggled green ribbon.

            “Lift your right hand, please.”

            I do, keeping my face blank.

            “Do you swear that you have no malicious intent with the contents of this package, that you will report to the proper authorities any improper use of magic in connection to said package, and that Oddwin’s is not liable for any improper use of magic associated with aforementioned package?”

            “I do.”

            He waves a hand to the side of the table with long clawed fingers. “Please sign.”

            Stepping forward, I pick up the quill. “Glad to see we’re no longer doing this in blood,” I say with some relief, signing my name on the release form. He doesn’t reply, and I set the quill down.

            He puts a piece of paper on top of the package and pushes it towards me. From inside the hood, he says, “Thank you for using Oddwin’s International Magical Courier. Please fill out this survey to win the new Nimbus 4000. We at Oddwin’s are always striving to do better.”

            I stare at him. I have so much to say. I have— _so_ _much_ —to say—

            _Cavity search_.

            With a smile, I pick up the box. “Have a lovely day.”

 

I take the moment the fire swirls green to mentally prepare myself. As much as I can. It’s twice a year. I know what she’ll say, I know how I’ll feel afterwards. This is practically scripted.

            As the other side of the fireplace appears, I make my face a careful blank. Leaning forward on my knees, I wait for things to clear.

            My mother sits on the other side, looking like elegance incarnate. She is the most beautiful woman in the world. I will never care what another says. She is unparalleled. Even sitting upon the floor, her legs carefully tucked beneath herself, her black and white striped skirt is spread out flawlessly. Her white blonde curls have been pulled over her shoulder, her décolletage tasteful. There are more wrinkles around her dark eyes than there were last time, but there always are each new time we speak.

            “Hello, Mother.”

            She smiles her small, contained smile, but I can see the love in her eyes. “Hello, Draco. Happy birthday.” I incline my head. “Did you get my package?” I raise my brow, then reach over, and pull the bedraggled parcel into sight. Mother draws in an irritated breath. “That man—I don’t know what I expect, Oddwin being a mudblood—“

            My hand on the parcel, I say calmly, “If you use that word again, I will leave.”

            She looks at me, then says, “Of course, dear.”

            “If you would use a real courier—“

            Aghast, Mother says, “What, a— _muggle_ courier?”

            “I get packages at the store through UPS and FedEx all the time. They never look like—this.”

            “You’re simply being provocative.” Her eyes light up. “You’ve not opened it yet.”

            “I know you like to watch when I open them.”

            She inches closer to her side of the fire. “Go on then.”

            I try not to let on my wariness. She’s my mother and I love her, despite both our many failings, but she has a tendency to miss the mark when it comes to gifts. She still sees the boy I was, not the man I’ve become. The box is about a foot across and high, so it’s not another broom. The one from two years ago—I’d never tell her, but I’ve never actually flown on it. I use it to sweep the floor.

            Untying the battered ribbon is all I have to do, and the parcel practically collapses. It opens to reveal a very dark green fabric.

            Straight away, I’m intrigued. I put my hand down, brushing my fingertips across it. “Is—this raw silk?”

            “You’ve not lost your eye,” Mother says, pleased.

            I pick it up, raising my brows. “Are these new dress robes?”

            “I know what you’ll say. You’ll say ‘I’ll never wear them, Mother, because I’ve no reason to with my— _muggle_ friends.’ But it’s traditional for a man to have new dress robes for his thirtieth birthday.” Her eyes search my face. “Do you like them?”

            I admit, “They are exquisite.”

            I’ll never have a reason to wear them. Even in Williamsburg I’d look insane, wearing these out of the house, and it’s not like I’ve any balls to attend. But they are impeccably tailored—wait.

            Turning them over with a furrowed brow, I observe, “These are my exact size.” I look up, giving her a probing gaze. “Mother.”

            “Yes, dear?”

            “Was this tailored for me?”

            “Of course. I wasn’t going to get you off the peg. Don’t be ridiculous.”

            “How did you get my measurements?”

            She waves a dismissive, long fingered hand. “Oh, I had Jinjy follow you for a day or two to get them.”

            I close my eyes briefly. “I—wish you would not do things like that.”

            “How do you mean to stop me, Draco?”

            “I merely said wish, I didn’t say—“ The word ‘wish’ stops me. It throws me off my guard, really. I pat my hand against the beautiful fabric. She’s said my name. I lift my head with an absent smile. “I apologize, Mother. Forgive me. I was distracted a moment. The robes are lovely. Thank you so much.”

            She studies me, then says, “How are you?”

            “I’m quite well, as a point of fact. Work is going well—“ She makes a face when I say ‘work’ but she always does. “And my boys are almost done school for the year. I’ll be going out with my friends tonight to celebrate my birthday.”

            “What are your plans for that?”

            “To have very many drinks and possibly make some bad decisions.”

            “Oh, Draco—“

            “I’ve told you before, it’s different here. Besides—the idea of having a birthday feast—being the center of all that attention.” I shiver. “It’s repellent to me, frankly.”

            “You’re worthy of the attention.”

            “Well, we are allowed a difference of opinion. And you, Mother? How do you fare?”

            She smiles, and I see her covering her pain. It doesn’t matter that a sea separates us, or that anyone else would be fooled. I can see. “I’m fine. Plenty to do around the house as always. We finished the ballroom, you know. Now we’re onto the drawing room.”

            “Again?” I ask gently.

            “Mm.”

            Gingerly, I question, “Has anyone been by?”

            “Oh, here and there,” she lies.

            “And have you been out?”

            “Are you interrogating me, Draco?”

            “No. I just—want to know that you’re well.”

            “Don’t worry about me, Draco. I can take quite good care of myself.” She takes a breath, and just from the way she holds her face, I know what the next topic will be. “Your father sends his regards.”

            “And I to him,” I reply.

            “I saw him last month. Did you get my letter?” I nod, making a non-committal noise. Mother goes on, unable to hide her eagerness. “He’s allowed three visits a year now. Not only the one. It would—it would mean so much—“ 

            As kindly as I’m able, I say, “No.”

            Her mouth shifts slightly. My mother is used to getting her way. My mother lied to the face of the Dark Lord about the death of his greatest foe. She is not easily swayed when her course is set. “It’s been two years—“

            “I am glad to hear that you will be able to see him more frequently. Send him my love, and be careful when you’re there. I worry to think of you going there.”

            My mother folds her hands together, glancing away. “Draco,” she says, her voice switching to matter of fact, “you are not a child anymore, and—“

            “Precisely. I am an adult, and when I make a decision, I expect it to be respected, and for you to believe that I’ve made it after much consideration, not childish malice. There’s nothing to be gained from me going there. What you wish for—he will not convince me. Nor you.”

            She swallows, ever so slightly. “Draco—this is so important. You understand the importance of this. Everything we sacrificed, we did it for you. For family.”

            It doesn’t matter that it’s my birthday. It always comes back to this. “You did what you did from bigotry, and you turned away at the last moment because you realized it would get us all killed. Prudence is a virtue, yes, but it is not devotion.” I stroke a hand over the fabric. “Mother, I don’t want to fight with you today. I just—I want to look at you.”

            She lets out the barest of laughs. “Look at me? Whatever for?”

            “Because you’re beautiful, and I miss you.”

            There is a crack in her exterior. After a moment, she says, “If you would come—“

            “If you would come visit me,” I counter. “I would put you in the most beautiful hotel in the city. I would show you all the things I love. I would be so pleased if you came to visit me, Mother, I truly, truly would.”

            She looks down at the floor, then gives me a sad little smile. “But then, who would tend to the drawing room, my love?”

            It hurts, just a touch. I let it go, because I have to. Giving her a sly smile, I tell her, “I did something you’ll hate.”

            “I thought that was how you derived your principle joys these days, sweetheart.”

            “I got a tattoo for you.”

            I can’t help but cherish the horrified look on her face. “Draco Lucius Malfoy, you did _not_.”

            Nodding, I grin. “I did.”

            She sputters a moment, then says, “It’s one thing to be provocative, Draco, and another to shock. Why on earth would you….”

            She’s at a loss for words, which is rare. “You don’t understand, but I did it to honour you.”

            Mother is aghast. She does give that expression she always has on whenever she’s around regular borns and blood traitors, like there’s a whiff of disgust about everything she encounters. “How many of those…things…are for people?”

            “Just the two.” I twist my right arm, to show the doe that leaps above my elbow. “That one, and yours. Would you like to see yours?”

            “I absolutely would _not_.”

            Trying not to smile, I set the dress robes on my lap. Pity I won’t have anywhere to wear them. Maybe at Halloween I could wear them out. Say I’m—I don’t know, a Victorian something or other.

            A sudden whim takes me over, and I say, “Mother, I’ve a peculiar question.”

            “Of course, dear.”

            Now I feel ridiculous. Should never have opened my mouth. Too late. “Whatever—happened to Harry Potter?”

            Mother lifts her head, a dip appearing between her brows. “What about him?”

            No. Backtrack. I have to backtrack. Waving it all off, I say, “Oh, nothing. I had a ridiculous dream the other night. First time I’ve thought of him in years. Forget I said anything about it.” I can see that she wants to know more, so I cut her off in the only sure-fire way I know how. “Would you like for me to try these on for you?”

            Her face absolutely lights up.

 

When I go downstairs into the shop, Mistress Teseli is with a customer. A little girl in a sari, holding a short wand that flies out of her hand when she gives it a flick.

            Mistress Teseli has that severe look on her face that she gives the children. “That will never do.” She points to the corner, where the wand lies. “Go fetch it, girl.” The father is too cowed to tell her not to order his child around.

            The shop reminds me of Ollivander’s only in the sense of size. Ollivander’s was a disaster—only he could find things in those towering piles of boxes. Mistress Teseli’s is far more to my liking. From floor to ceiling are little drawers in the walls, each labelled, all sorted by wood, then core, then length. The shop, so far as I can tell, holds at least twenty aisles worth of wands. And it is always, always clean.

            She catches my eye, and says imperiously to them, “We will continue momentarily.” She moves across the floor to me, and it hits me now that I think I like her because of how much she reminds me of my mother. Well, if my mother was a black transwoman from the American south, perhaps. Mistress Teseli smiles for me, crossing her arms. “All finished?”

            “Yes. I know to argue with you about reimbursement would be futile, but if there’s ever anything you need—“

            She lifts a hand in front of my mouth. “Careful, Mr. Malloy. Make no promise where it need not be given.” Then her eyes narrow, and she cocks her head.

            “Is something wrong?”

            Concerned, Mistress Teseli says, “There is a strange magic about you.”

            I inhale, saying, “This witch down the street—“

            She gives a quick twitch of her wrist, and her wand is suddenly in her hand without seeming to have moved through space. Good heavens, I would _love_ to learn how to do that. No. No, I don’t need magic to do everything. Magic is a crutch. “Most peculiar,” the wandmaker murmurs, raising her pale instrument. “I’ve not seen this—“

            The door opens, and two more families come in, one right after the other, looking nervous.

            Sighing, I say, “Do I appear to be in imminent danger?”

            “No—I would not call it that. It is…neutral.”

            “Then I’ll leave you be. Again, madam, your kindnesses are always deeply appreciated.” I give her a particularly deep bow this time. I hear her tsk, and give her a crooked smile before leaving, which she responds to with a smirk.

            Well, that’s two items off my list. Now all that’s left is to find the office of magical misuse and file a report.

            Which is a complete lie.

            I know I’m not going to report her. Of course I won’t. What am I, daft? I’ve spent years maintaining a low profile in this community, because I don’t intend to live my life as the footnote in someone else’s story. I just want to live, and not be the subject of speculation and newspaper articles. I have had my fill, thank you _very_ much.

            If I reported her, it would be in the news back home in hours. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, sharing dreams. That’s front page, easily. People would track me down. It’s not like it’s impossible right now, but I’ve faded from the public consciousness. I will keep it that way.

            So I’ll find Mrs. E myself, give her a piece of my mind—a large piece—and settle this. For all I know, it was a onetime thing. An aberration. If it’s not, I’ll tell her to take her damned wish back, and if I have to do it with my wand in her face, I will.

            Some other day, though. I refuse to be any more miserable on my birthday. It’s time to go enjoy myself.

            I turn and head back to the terminal. Bad decisions, indeed.

 

It is nearly nine when I reach the bar. I lift my hand to the man at the door, whose name I don’t know, but who I’ve seen plenty over the last few years. Thank God we’re going here, where they won’t check for my ID.

            It’s tradition to come to Paladin’s on my birthday. I’ve done it every birthday I’ve had since coming to Brooklyn. It used to be Jason’s favourite place before the remodel, but he’s irked by how much the place has cleaned up. I’m far more amenable to the changes. I like how everything is bathed in blue light, I like the mix of different genres of music, I like that the staff don’t have to wear skimpy outfits anymore. Frankly, I always found that bit a little embarrassing for both sides.

            I’ve got here early, so the place is still quite quiet, TV on the Radio playing overhead. A few people out on the dance floor away from all the tables, but they’re exhibitionists. I might go up later if I’ve had a few.

            No. It’s my birthday, damn it. I’ll have more than a few—but no shots—and I’ll dance.

            Ah—there’s a welcome face. All by himself at the largest table is Mathias. He’s looking absently at his drink. He looks good. Well, he always looks good. Heard he and Paul broke up again. Now if only they’d stay that way, the world would be a better place.

            He lifts his head when I’m nearly at the table, and his face completely changes, becoming more what I’m used to. He’s almost always smiling. “Hey, birthday boy!” Mathias says, scooting out of the booth. He lifts his arms, and I bend down to hug him. He’s perhaps five four. Hmm—a little softer than last we met, I think. I find it a little funny. He’s always been such a gym bunny.

            “How are you?” I ask, stepping back to take a closer look at him. His cheeks have gotten a little chubby. He’s utterly adorable, and I’ve always thought so. That full black hair that rises straight up from his head and warm brown eyes. Filipino, I think he told me once.

            “Better now,” Mathias grins. He hasn’t let go of my arms. He tugs me towards the table. “Come sit with me!”

            I do as he asks, but whereas he sits down and shuffles to the back, I just stand on the cushions and quickly walk to the back. He laughs at me, pulling me down to sit next to him. He presses close to me, and I glance him over. “What are you doing here so early?”

            He shrugs, showing off the dimple in his left cheek. “Nothing else happening. And I _knew_ you’d get here first, because you’re so weird.”

            “It’s not weird to be punctual.”

            “It’s weird.” I feel his fingertips ghost over my thigh. “You look flawless as ever.”

            I shrug. I know I look well tonight. Thinking about the robes Mother bought me, I’ve worn my dark green button up, sleeves rolled to my elbows, over tight black jeans with the tears in the knees. I’ve even worn some of my rings tonight, which I rarely do.

            “I’m so pleased to see you,” I say. “It’s been so long.”

            He makes a face. “I know. I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be sorry. We all get busy. I’m just pleased you’re here now.” Under the table, I stroke my fingers over the back of his hand.

            Mathias bites his lip, then twists slightly to face me. “Can I be totally upfront?”

            Leaning back, I smile lazily. “Please do.”

            “And I mean it, if you’re not into it or there’s somebody else, that’s fine. I’m a grown up, you’re a grown up, yada yada yada.” Looking like he expects me to decline, Mathias asks, “Do you want a boyfriend for the night?”

            I have to sink my teeth into my lower lip a second, so he doesn’t think that I’m not taking him seriously. “Would you like that?”

            He rolls his eyes. “Well, _I_ would, but it’s _your_ birthday, and….” He takes a deep breath, and admits, “I was just…you know, I thinking about your twenty eighth….”

            With a nod, I say, “That was a _good_ birthday.”

            “And I know you don’t like more than one night but you’re not a dick about it, and I thought I’d volunteer as tribute.” He leans closer, with big eyes. “Also, I’m really fucking broke and didn’t get you a birthday present.”

            I start to laugh, and I slip my hand under his. “I’d like that.”

            “Yeah?”

            I nod. “Mm.” Leaning closer, I murmur, “Come here.”

            I see his little grin, and he leans up for me to kiss him. It’s been two years since I kissed Mathias, and it feels like far too long. He has a soft mouth that tastes ever so slightly of Triple Sec. His small fingers wrap around mine, and I give his lower lip a gentle suck, to get the taste of alcohol into my own mouth.

            “Jesus, have you two _already_ started?”

            We part just enough so I can look at Leanna. She strips off her denim jean jacket, dressed in a skin-tight leopard print corset dress. “Well, I thought about waiting for you to join,” I drawl, “but then I remembered that I don’t exactly fancy girls.”

            “You’re breaking my heart,” she says, scooting along the booth. “Hey Matty.”

            “Hey Lee.”

            She arches a brow at him. “ _You_ moved fast.”

            “Hell yes I did,” he says shamelessly.

            Leanna droops against me. “Happy birthday, you beautiful man. Sis wanted me to apologize again for not being able to make it.” She tosses a small wooden box at me. “That’s for you.”

            I catch it one handed. “Oh, you’re too kind.” I wrap an arm around her neck, and kiss the top of her head. “Shall I open it now?”

            “Yeah, what the hell.”

            I crack it open. “Oh—Leanna, that is _lovely_.” It’s one of her little miniature paintings, painted right into the box. I won’t be able to tell until I’m out of the blue light of the bar, but I think it’s a green version of that cat painting of hers that I adore so much. Closing it with a click, I say honestly, “I love it, thank you.”

            I bend my head, and she gives me a peck on the lips. “Anything for you.”

            Already, I can tell it is going to be a good night. Mathias flush against my one side, Leanna on the other—this is exactly how I want to spend my birthday. With my favourite people in the world, acting like I’ve no cares.

            Then Leanna says, “So—Jason _and_ Derrell are both coming, right?”

            I roll my eyes.

 

I’ve no desire to be anyone’s boyfriend.

            Case in point.

            I had never seen two men more in love with one another than Jason and Derrell. They were insane about one another. Growing up, I’d never been around queer couples. It just wasn’t the done thing. So to see these two men who placed one another first, who were incredibly domestic and loving and kind, it was a revelation for me. Myself, I thought I’d never date seriously because I was just broken, and all those melodramatic things that one thinks when one’s young. But if I did, though, I thought maybe I’d have a chance. Look at Jason and Derrell. They were so different, but they fit together perfectly.

            Then Derrell was offered the job as principal, and he dumped Jason because he wasn’t appropriate enough.

            Now Jason sits on the left side of the table, ignoring the other side. He’s been single ever since they broke up three years ago. Derrell’s on the end of the right side of the table, next to yet another in a long line of boring but societally approved men who could never really make him happy.

            No thank you.

            That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy the trappings of the whole situation. I love having my arm around Mathias, feeling his solid shape pressed against me. I like running my fingers absently up and down his spine when I’m talking to someone else. I’ve gotten up twice already to get him a drink, even though everyone tells me to sit down, that I’m not supposed to pay because it’s my birthday. I argued back that I wasn’t buying any drinks for myself, I was buying them for him. And I liked seeing how that pleased him.

            I like taking care of other people. It’s not a thing I certainly knew about myself until I was into my twenties and far from home. I like working a desk and keeping things organized so that other people can do their jobs. I like giving my attention and time to my boys so that they can have a better shot at life. I like being amongst friends, and having them all know that I’d drop anything I was doing if they needed me. They know that. They love me for it.

            As I love them.

            I’ve never had a proper boyfriend. I don’t know that I ever shall. If I want sex, all I have to do is snap my fingers—I mean, look at me. But that kind of emotional commitment—well, I don’t think I’m equipped.

            Besides, if I was to be with someone, it would not be a wizard. Certainly not. I would want to be with a regular. That won’t happen for obvious reasons. The law is you can’t inform a partner until you’re legally common law. So for well over a year, I’d have to lie to a man. That’s not exactly the stuff that strong relationships are made of.

            So every once in a while, one of my lovely single friends will be my boyfriend for the night, and I can pretend that I am normal, that I am capable of doing this. It’s nice to pretend.

            And it’s my birthday, after all.

           

Jan nearly leans across the table with the phone, but stops at the last minute. “God, you don’t want to see this,” she says, falling back.

            “I do,” I insist. “Of course I do.”

            “Really?”

            “No, but show me anyways.”

            Everyone breaks out into laughter, and she sheepishly holds out the phone. I take it from her, and look at the pictures of her and Isaac’s chubby cheeked baby.

            “Very—young,” I say.

            Leanna leans over. “Jesus, it’s like someone put your head on a baby’s body, Isaac.”

            The observation is not far off, and Isaac just shrugs, his arm around Jan. “At least no one can ever say he’s not mine.” Jan jabs a pointy elbow into his padded ribs.

            I flip through the pictures. I’m not fond of kids, but infants I can handle. It’s when they start talking that they become difficult. Once they reach the irritating teenage stage, fine, I understand that. It’s the weirdness in between that would make me break out in hives.

            We look up as someone says, “Sorry! Sorry!”

            I lift a hand in greeting as Gemma shows up, Rodrigo and Joshua trailing in her wake. “Where the hell have you all been?” I ask.

            “All her fault,” Rodrigo says, which is typically the most one can ever get out of him at once.

            Joshua waves, holding a present across the table. “Happy birthday.”

            He gives me a warm look, and Mathias says, “Don’t even think about it. I got here first.”

            The others laugh, and I’m not so humble that I can’t say I’m pleased to see Joshua looks put out. Everyone shuffles down to make room, and Gemma says, “The car wouldn’t start, and it became a whole _thing_ , and it’s my fault.”

            “Why do you even have a car?” Leanna asks for possibly the millionth time.

            “Don’t start with me.”

            “Besides,” says Joshua, “It’s only ten thirty. This thing’s just getting started, right?”

            “Maybe for you kids,” Ryan, Derrell’s boyfriend, says. “We can’t stay too late.”

            I can practically feel Jason’s eye roll, and steer the conversation away. “So what has Joshua gotten me?”

            “Oh, this is for you too,” Gemma says, putting a box down in front of me.

            “Everyone’s so generous,” I murmur. I’m a little embarrassed, really. It’s the only time of year that I let things be about me. So far I have some beautiful shirts from Jan and Isaac, some books from Derrell, the miniature from Leanna, and Jason’s given me a gorgeous painting of a dragon that will go perfectly on my bedroom wall. Unwrapping the present, I smile at the suspenders and the leather cuffs Joshua has gotten for me. “Aren’t these beautiful. Thank you, Joshua.”

            The gift from Gemma is a set of wine glasses she’s blown herself. I think of the wine bottle I dropped on the floor last night, and thank her most sincerely.

            Raising a brow at Rodrigo, I ask, “What about you?”

            He shrugs. “I’ll punch Freddy for you.”

            All of us who work at the shop start laughing, save Jason, who says, “Come on.”

            Leanna raises an index finger. “Oh no. This is a no-judgment zone. If Rodrigo says he’s going to punch that dipshit, no one’s getting fired.”

            “Says who?”

            “Draco. It’s his birthday.” Leanna turns to the table and says, “You know that motherfucker threw a twenty at Draco, told him to go get him cigarettes, and then walked away again?”

            Isaac turns to stare at me. “He _what_?”

            Jason says weakly, “In all fairness, Draco—you go get Rodrigo cigarettes.”

            I fix him with the Malfoy glare. He’s my boss and my best friend, but _no_. “I’ll get Rodrigo cigarettes when he asks if I’m not busy, insists I get something for myself, and isn’t a flaming arse about it. Your nephew tried to treat me like I was his—“ House elf. “Servant.”

            “Tell them what you did,” Leanna says, smacking me on the arm. “Tell them.”

            Picking up my drink, I sit back. “Tore his money in half, tossed it right back at him, and told him I wasn’t his fucking slave.”

            That gets me some applause, and I smile crookedly when Mathias kisses me on the cheek.

            The mood changes decidedly when Ryan says, “You ever think of getting out of there?”

            Everyone gives him a displeased scowl, and Derrell looks like he wishes the floor would open under him. He already looks so uncomfortable, being back here with the old gang, and now his oblivious rich boyfriend has opened his oblivious mouth.

            Finishing my sip, I say, “And why would I do that?”

            “Well—Derrell thinks you hang the moon. He’s always talking about how brilliant you are. Have you been to school or anything?”

            “No.”

            “Thirty’s a big year. Might want to think about taking some opportunities.” Derrell puts a hand on his arm, murmuring something, and Ryan says, “Oh, come on. You’re always talking about how he should—“

            “How he should _what_ ,” Jason threatens.

            Before this can go any further, I say loudly, “I’m touched that all of you are so concerned for my welfare, but I think you all know that I am entirely in love with my life, and if that should ever change, well, then I’d re-evaluate. For now, however, at this very moment, I am with my favourite people, in one of my favourite places, and I just want to thank you all for being here. I am most blessed to have you all.” I lift my glass. “To my friends. Cheers.”

            Everyone toasts, and Gemma catches my eyes, mouthing, ‘Close one.’

            “Is it late enough to start the shots?” Leanna asks brightly, and I say, “ _No_.”

 

An hour and a half later, I’ve got my face buried in Leanna’s tits, lips fastening around the glass she holds in her cleavage. Teeth tight, a quick flip of the head, and down the hatch. I spit the shot glass into my hand, and we both start to laugh.

            I let Mathias pull me onto the dance floor, and I move against him without any inhibitions, fueled by happiness and liquor. Oh, I love to dance with him. He’s not afraid to touch, to get so close, and it’s fine with him, not like when a complete stranger tries to move on me. Bodies pressed together, my leg between his, we slither almost down to the floor together, then I grab him and pull him back up, spinning him in a circle to make him laugh.

            Derrell and his blundering boyfriend leave, and when I hug him, he whispers, “Sorry,” in my ear. I just tell him that I’m glad he could come, and say we’ll talk on Monday. He doesn’t have to apologize to me. He’s the one who’s miserable, after all. I hold no grudges against him.

            Jan and Isaac have to go next, because of the baby—it’s the first night they’ve been out together since he was born, and I’m touched that they came out for me. Isaac thumps me so hard on the back when he hugs me that I think he almost pops out one of my ribs.

            The rest of us all stay on the dance floor, flitting back and forth from throwing ourselves about to the beat and going to get more drinks. I start to feel a bit spinny and decide to cut myself off, particularly if I’m going to make any kind of showing with Mathias later.

            ‘The Boy With The Thorn in His Side’ comes on, and I yell, “Which one of you did this? Which one?” Joshua and Gemma are both giggling, and I snatch Gemma around the waist, pinning her back against me and giving her a tickle. “You think you’re funny, do you? You think you’re so bloody _hilarious_.”

            Even Rodrigo is up on the dance floor with us, though he can’t dance and doesn’t really make the effort. He just swings one arm forward, then the other, bobbing his head, and scaring everyone else by being six ten and looking like he belongs to a biker gang, which I think he might once have. I dance with him a little, copying his motions, until he puts a hand to my face and nearly shoves me off my feet, lunging to grab me before I really fall. I drape against his solid, warm height, inhaling his sweat and the scent of cheap deodorant.

            We dance, and we drink, and then we dance and drink some more.

 

I don’t know what time it is. I’ve no idea. I don’t care. Late.

            “The boy with the thorn in his side!” Leanna sings loudly and tunelessly. “Behind his murderous pride lies—something something something— _love_ —“

            “Oh God,” Mathias begs. “Make it stop.”

            Leanna spins beside us, her high heeled shoes hooked around her fingers. “You love it. You love my—“ She stumbles, and Rodrigo reaches out to steady her, his other hand keeping me in place. Blearily, Leanna insists, “I’m an—international superstar.”

            “You’re no Celestina Warbeck,” I say from my position atop Rodrigo’s back.

            Everyone laughs, though they’ve no idea what I’m talking about.

            We’re walking towards Mathias’, and Rodrigo is being incredibly accommodating by letting me ride on his back. He’s just about the only one large enough that could still do that for me at my height. My arms are wrapped around his neck, my face pressed against his long, rough dark hair. It’s the same texture as his beard, which is almost as long. He’s gruff, he is, but he’s plenty soft underneath.

            I’m not that legless. I mean, I’m certainly drunk, but I’m not riding his back like a child because I can’t walk. I’m doing it just because I can, and no one will judge me for it.

            There are still people out on the street. It’s God only knows what hour, we just shut down Paladin, but it’s Saturday night in Williamsburg, just far enough from the Satmars that we don’t worry about the amount of noise we’re making. We’re not the only ones making a drunken spectacle of ourselves, though I am the only one riding piggyback on a giant tattooist.

            When we reach Mathias’ apartment, I’m a little sad about it, but not too sad, because one part of the night is ending and another is just starting.

            Rodrigo lets me down carefully, and Leanna gives me a drunken bow. “There you are, m’ladies.”

            Laughing at her, I pull her into my arms. “For God sake, let him walk you home, will you?”

            “Oh, I’m—tough. I’m the _toughest_.” I feel her start to fall asleep against me, mumbling, “Shots….”

            I put her back on her feet. “Wake up!”

            “I am awake! Fuck!”

            I give her a ‘sure you are’ look, then turn back to Rodrigo. “You too, big man.”

            He frowns slightly, but bends down to give me a gentle hug. “Happy birthday, man.”

            “Thank you.” I pat his chest. “Remember, if I ever need that little prick at work punched, you’ve volunteered.”

            He smiles, then holds out an arm to Leanna. She staggers against him, while Mathias slips his hand into mine. He’s carrying all my presents, the darling. As Rodrigo and Leanna walk away, she hollers over her shoulder, “Go break a bed or something! Ring in thirty right!”

            With a soft laugh, I say to Mathias, “I think I’ve been ringing it in quite well.”

            He raises a brow. “Are you done for the night, then?”

            I slap him on the arse, making him yelp. “Don’t be ridiculous. Get in there.”

            He blushes, but he’s smiling too. He unlocks the door, and I follow him inside.

            I whinge plenty about the fact that he’s at the top of a six story walk up, but the truth is, I take every opportunity to pin him against the wall in the stairwell and try to explore his tonsils with my tongue. Every time he starts to melt, I let him go and bound up another stairwell, laughing as he curses in my direction.

            While he’s trying to unlock the door to his flat, I press against his back and start murmuring in his ear. “What do you want me to do to you? What do you want, you beautiful—gorgeous—man?” Slipping a hand over the front of his trousers, I cup between his legs, biting my smile as his knees start to give. I lick behind his ear, breathing against him. “Do you remember last time? My knees were scraped raw for a week after what I did to you. And you? Could you even walk? You filthy little thing—“

            He shoves the door open, then grabs me by the collar and practically throws me inside.

            I catch myself against the couch, laughing. He drops my presents on the ground, kicking off his shoes, then he pins me back against the couch, reaching up to thread his short fingers into my curls, and not being nice about it. Fuck, it has been far too long since I had a man’s tongue in my mouth—

            What’s this?

            I tried to put my hands under his shirt, and he just kind of grunted and batted me off. None of that. I try again.

            What on earth is he doing? He won’t let me go under his shirt, and frankly, I bloody well intend to have him naked in under five minutes. Pulling back an inch, I ask rather bluntly, “What’s the matter with you?”

            “Nothing,” Mathias says, leaning forward to kiss me.

            I keep my head back. “Don’t lie. What are you trying to hide?”

            He looks at me, then grimaces. It’s dark, but I think he might be blushing a little. “Look…I just….”

            “Use your words.”

            He gives me a little shove. “After…Paul and I broke up…I stopped going to the gym. I’m…pudgy.”

            Good lord, _that’s_ what he’s worried about?

            I grab his hand, and I force it up under my own shirt. Moving his fingers, I press them to one of the worst of my scars. He winces slightly, not in a disgusted way, but almost in pity. I don’t care what others think, when it comes to this I’ll take the latter over the former.

            “Remember what I look like?” I ask. I slide his fingers to another scar, the one just below my navel. “Do you think I give a toss because there’s more of you for me to defile?” He giggles a little at that, and I let his hand loose. I put my hands to his face, and press our foreheads together. “You’re so beautiful,” I murmur. I start to kiss his cheeks. “You—are so—fucking lovely—“

            He kisses me, then mutters, “Defile.”

            We both crack up, and I pull him back, and we fall over onto the couch in a pile of limbs and drunken, happy laughter.

 

“Draco.”

            “What?” I mumble.

            Someone’s stroking the back of my neck. “You okay?”

            I nuzzle closer to the warmth. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

            “You sounded like you were having a nightmare.”

            My eyes flicker open. Ah, yes. I’m tucked up under Mathias’ armpit, my head on his shoulder and my legs splayed across him. His hair is a disaster, and I’m sure mine’s not much better. It’s early, light all soft and not even a little bit irritating to my slightly aching head.

            I snake an arm across him. “Mm. No. No nightmares. Not that I can remember.”

            I smile as he threads his fingers into my hair, pulling it out of my eyes. “Did you have fun last night?”

            “Oh yes. You?”

            “Sure did.”

            I open my eyes all the way, and say with some amusement, “I’m thirty.”

            He smiles, showing me a dimple. “Yes you are.”

            “Christ. I didn’t think I’d live this long.” Talk about your triumphs. Take that, entire universe. Somehow I, Draco Malfoy, managed to make it an entire three decades. I look at Mathias hopefully. “Do I remember something about you cooking?”

            “I suppose. You want pancakes?”

            “Yes. I want pancakes.”

            He wiggles out from under me, and gives my forehead a quick kiss. “Pancakes it is.”

            I watch him walk out of the bedroom, naked, and then I turn on my back. Letting my arms fall above my head, I think about last night. It was a good one. More than good. It was pretty splendid.

            And if I had any nightmares, I can’t remember them. No Harry Potter either. That’s cause for celebrating.

            Pancakes. That sounds like an excellent way to start the day. I climb out of bed and go to find Mathias.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So begins the usual writer's request for comments. I love them, and they are of course the fuel used to propel many a writing session.


	4. Chapter 4

I look up from the computer and say, “What the hell do you think _you’re_ doing here?”

            Us leans against the doorway. I haven’t seen him like this before. Shades of Friday night, yes, but this isn’t outright shock. He’s looking at me like he just doesn’t know _what_ to do about me.

            He holds out a bright pink square. “Mrs. Miller excused me from last period.”

            I frown, reaching out for it, and he shuffles across the office. Taking the slip, I see that, yes, indeed she has. “How did you manage that?”

            “I said I felt like I was gonna throw up. She said I looked like I was.”

            He sits down carefully across the desk. I look back, unblinking.

            Us is a good looking kid, my height, and solidly built with long limbs. He has the darkest complexion of my boys, with eyes to match, and he keeps his hair shaved down to his scalp. Unlike some of the other boys his age who grow a pathetic little mustache just to prove that they can, he’s always neatly shaven. His ears are pierced on both sides, three on each. I’ve never had anything pierced, nor do I mean to.

            We’re in one of the offices at the community center. I come here around one on Mondays so that I can write reports, catch up on whatever books the boys are supposed to be reading, or whatever Joshua needs me to do. I’m his designated fundraising attack dog. I tend not to take no for an answer.

            The boys aren’t supposed to be here for another hour. I suppose I was expecting something like this from Us, though.

            He doesn’t speak, so I ask, “Are you okay?”

            Looking at me like I’m an idiot, or like he can’t believe I’m alive, he responds, “No. I’m not okay.” Us shakes his head at me. “You could have been _shot_. He _did_ shoot. I just….” I let him take his time. This is one of those times where I need to let him just get it out. “What the _fuck_ were you thinking?”

            “I was thinking that I don’t want to see you dead or in prison. That’s what I was thinking. What the fuck were you thinking?” He looks taken aback, and I say, “I called you, I texted, I told you—“

            Us bursts out, “You almost died! You stood in front of him and—do you not—why don’t you fucking _get it_ —“

            I nod past him. “Close the door.” He doesn’t move, and I snap my fingers. “The preschoolers are down the hall. Close the damn door.”

            With a hiss, Us gets up and slams the door. Dropping back in his seat like a rock, he says angrily, “What, you think you’re bullet proof? Did you think he’s never shot anybody before—“

            “I know he’s shot people. Plural. I was well aware of that. Why do you think I thought it was so imperative to find you?” I shrug, nonplussed. “Your safety, the other boys’ safety, is paramount. No exceptions. If that means standing between you and a gun, I’ll do it. I have before.”

            “Man, that’s so—that’s so _stupid_ , you almost _died_ —“

            “Yes, because I was trying to keep you safe. You can be angry at me, but when you’ve finished, I’ll expect an apology for putting me in that position.” Yes, he does look like he’s about to vomit. I pick up the wastebin beside the desk, and hold it out to him. “In here, not on the paperwork.”

            I expect him to say something clever. Instead, he takes the bin. Holding it in his lap, Us says, “You musta known. You musta. You saw something on the gun or…Dre, you didn’t—I mean, you knew, right? You knew.”

            Crossing my arms, I bob up and down in the rolling chair. “If I say I knew, that absolves you, does it? No harm, no foul, and we all just go back to normal. Better that I keep you on the hook, I think. Make you think about a world where you got me shot.”

            Us shakes his head. “You knew,” he insists. “There’s no way—no. No way you’d be this calm.”

            “Why shouldn’t I be?”

            “Because Nines is a bad guy, and he fired a gun in your goddamn face!”

            I snort, then turn back to the computer, scrolling through Yadiel’s marks over the last year. “I’ve faced worse than that div.”

            A few moments go by. When I finally look over at him, Us is looking at me through narrowed eyes. “Who _are_ you?” he asks.

            That drains me of my nonchalance. I go on my guard, same as always. I fold my hands in my lap, and raise my shoulders. “I told you about myself, when you first came to me.”

            “I want to hear it again.”

            “You mean you weren’t listening the first time, and now you’re unnerved and want answers. I don’t know how much good I’ll be to you on that front.”

            Us says stubbornly, “I want to hear it again.”

            Fuck. I don’t like this part.

            But it’s necessary.

            I pull right up to the desk, folding my arms on it, and I give him my undivided attention. “All right,” I say quietly. He watches me so closely. I know that this time he’s going to pay attention to every word, and knowing Us, he won’t forget a syllable. “When I was your age, I fought in a war.”

            “Which war?”

            I shake my head. “You know I don’t tell anyone that. You know I don’t give out details that people can follow. I don’t want to be found, and the world is better off not finding me. Those are my terms and always have been.”

            “You make everybody tell you everything.”

            “I do, because I’m the adult, and you’re children.” He bristles, and I say, “I don’t care that we’re the same height. You’re a child. Don’t think you’ll win that argument with me. Do you want the story or not?”

            He scowls, then juts his chin forward, in as close to a ‘yes’ as I suppose I’ll get.

            “I fought on the wrong side. I did what my father expected of me, but he had some…rather suspect ideas.”

            Bluntly, Us says, “People say you were a neo Nazi.”

            Surprised, I reply, “Do they?” I consider it, then shrug. “Well, I am blond, and I look rather dashing in black.” I clear my throat. Not a time to joke, I guess. It’s always an awkward conversation. “No. We weren’t Nazis, but we were…it _was_ about racial supremacy. My parents taught me that there were some people who weren’t really…human. That we were better than them, that they were…worse than animals, really. My mother, she thought the answer was simply to not…intermarry, or to even socialize with our lessers. My father took rather a harder line. He thought that violence, that suppression and control was a better tactic. I believed what they believed, because they were my parents. I didn’t go to a normal school, didn’t interact with people who weren’t like me until I was eleven. By then I was a terror, but I suppose I was only getting started.

            “There was a man, who was in charge of the movement my father belonged to. He…was absent for some years. But he returned, and his goal was…insane. It was hateful and obscene, and I signed up for his cause because I thought it was the right thing to do.”

            “What?” Us says angrily. “To kill black kids?”

            “To kill a lot of people,” I reply. “We were fascists. Anyone who wasn’t us was just…fair game. Might makes right. It was disgusting. I know it was, Demetrius. I’m telling you what I did, but I want you to know that I’m in no way proud of it. My life was a complete loss until I came to America.”

            I reach up to tuck back my hair, then I remember. “Have you ever seen my scars?”

            He frowns, then says, “No.”

            “Oh, well, aren’t you in for a treat. When I was sixteen, I was given a task. I was supposed to kill the headmaster at my school.”

            Us stares at me a moment, then says, “Get the fuck out of here.”

            “Not a word of lie. He was known as being a great man. A man in direct opposition to the man who my family was following. No, this man…say what you will about him, because no matter what people like to think, he was a terrible headmaster, but he did have some good ideas. Equality. Forgiveness. Second chances. And I was supposed to kill him. I’d been in plenty of fights, said plenty of disgusting things, but to kill someone…that’s an entirely different kettle of fish, isn’t it.”

            “Your dad was cool with you just icing your principal?”

            “My father was in jail. He was caught, and sent to prison, and the man in charge decided that his revenge would be to have me take on this impossible task. He knew I’d probably be killed in the process. He didn’t care. I don’t know that he ever cared about anything besides power.” I look at Us, and say, “I watched him kill people, then feed them to his pet. So, no, Demetrius, some two time loser like Nines does not frighten me.”

            “Shut the fuck up.”

            “Only because we’re having a very serious discussion am I allowing you to use that kind of profanity. But yes. It was…insane, to say the least. So there I am, your age, and I’m meant to kill a man. I thought I could do it. I really did. I wanted revenge for my father, I wanted to make him proud. And I believed in the cause. I’m not one of those people who’ll try and say that all along I knew something was off. No. I believed and said and did horrendous things, and I don’t ever expect to be forgiven for them. I believed I was just born _better_ than other people. That I was superior. So any time you’re really upset with me, remember that I’ll never be able to take any of that back, no matter how much I might like to. That’s on me like a stain until I die.

            “But in the middle of all this…there was a boy. My age. On the opposite side of things, as it were. He was convinced of what I was going to do. No one believed him, but he was sure of it. And one night, we—got in a fight, and he did this.” I lift my hair, showing the scar that runs from just above my ear, up a good six inches. “As well as this.”

            When I lift my shirt, Us’ eyes widen. “Holy _shit_ , dude, how many times did he stab you?”

            Dropping the shirt, I wave him off. “Oh—after the first blow it all just…sort of bled together. By that point, I’d started to have some doubts. When I realized what it really meant, to kill a man. When this happened—it hardened my resolve. They were always pretending to be so good, so righteous and just. Then this boy who they all thought was the second coming bled me within an inch of my life. So I tried to kill the headmaster.”

            “And?”

            “He talked me out of it. He had this preposterous notion that I could be saved. Then he was murdered anyways, while I watched.” I take a deep breath. I hate talking about this, but if I don’t, what does that say about me? “After that…things became very, very…bad.”

            “They weren’t bad already?”

            “Well, let’s say that’s the point when I started seeing people fed to animals. I still believed that there were people who were inferior to me, but the reality of the situation…I was trapped. If I’d tried to do something, to leave, to speak, I would have been killed. My whole family would have been killed. So instead, I did as I was told. I did all the awful things he asked of me. A better man would have chosen death, but I was seventeen and I didn’t think I had any choice. It was a very bad year, and we don’t need to go into details, for either of our sakes.”

            Us says, “Did you kill anyone?”

            I shake my head. “No. But I’ve tortured them to the point where they probably wished they did.”

            “What the fuck,” he breathes.

            “Again, _I’m_ probably scarier than Nines is. Anyways, the war ended just before I turned eighteen. The man who led the movement was killed, but not nearly soon enough. So many…so many good, good people died. And I helped that happen. I was a child, but I helped. That’s not something one easily forgets. There was a trial. We were some of the first prosecuted, since we were some of the only ones left alive from our side. My mother and I were sentenced to five years house arrest, because she had helped the other side on one very important occasion, and my age was taken into consideration. My father’s currently in his twelfth year of a twenty year sentence. He is exceedingly lucky that it wasn’t life.” I exhale. “It should have been.”

            “You did five years of house arrest for _torturing_ people?” Us says incredulously.

            “Four. I had a year shaved off for good behaviour.”

            Shaking his head, he mutters, “White people.”

            “When I finished my time, I left England, and I came here.”

            “And what? We’re you trying to fix your fucked up karma or something?”

            “No. Lord no. I just sort of fell into this. Because of Derrell. Principal Myers, I mean. He was very good to me when I first got here.” I gesture around us. “Brought me here. Gave me a chance. He thought it would be good for me, and I just wanted to do something. Anything. It turned out that I have rather a good idea of how to deal with difficult teenage boys who think they know everything and have a tendency to place themselves into terrible situations. That’s my story. As much as I can tell you. I signed a confidentiality agreement, so I’m not allowed to say anything more.”

            Us shakes his head, his brow furrowed. “I don’t _fucking_ get it.”

            “A fucked up boy did a bunch of fucked up things because his fucked up parents taught him to, and he grew up into a decent enough man who tries to be everything that fucked up boy wasn’t. It’s not rocket science, Us.”

            “Do you have some kind of death wish or something? Cause of the shit you did?”

            “No. I intend to live. I could tell there was something wrong with the gun, Us. I knew I’d be fine. I just wanted to scare some sense into you.”

            Crossing his arms, Us challenges, “Yeah? What was wrong with it?”

            “I don’t know, some sort of gun thing. It all worked out, didn’t it?”

            Us studies me a long moment. He’s not the kind of person to be quiet, so it makes me a little leery. “Why’d you do it?”

            “Because I care about you. And I don’t want you to fuck up your whole future.”

            “Why do you care?”

            “Because you’re smart and capable and I think you could do anything you wanted.”

            “So what? You want to save me?”

            I drop my head, letting out a groan. “No. You know I _hate_ it when people say that. I can’t save you, though God knows I wish I could. I wish—I had a magic wand that I could just wave at you, and you’d see that the future—isn’t what you think it is. It’s completely open for someone like you. It really is. If you need to be saved, it’ll never be me who does it. It has to be you. You have to save yourself. Otherwise, it doesn’t work. I can scold you until I’m blue in the face, but it won’t mean a thing if you don’t hear me. If you don’t want to hear me, or your grandmother, or your teachers. I mean—what do you want to do, Us? What do you really want to do with your life?”

            “The hell if I know.”

            “Well—at least you’re honest. But if you could just—understand…that you can do anything. You frustrate me so much because I see how easily things come to you, and all the things you could do, and for that to be wasted….No. What I want, Us? What I really want for you is for you to be happy. You want to be a neurosurgeon, because that would make you happy? I’d be thrilled. If it would really make you happy to have four kids and run a barber shop? I’d be thrilled. I just don’t want to add you to my list of people I visit in Rikers.” I hold my hand level in the air. “That’s my bar. I wish you’d put it a bit higher.”

            He frowns at me. I’m not used to it. He’s the one who’s always smiling, no matter what. “I heard stories about you. Someone told me you stood in front of a gun before. I didn’t believe them.”

            I shrug. “A skinny white fool sticks his nose in a lot of unwelcome places. Of _course_ I’ve had guns stuck in my face.”

            “Look, man…I don’t know what to do with all this. I just don’t. But I need you to—you gotta promise me you’re not gonna do this again.”

            “Why wouldn’t I?”

            He kicks the desk, and I jump. “Because you’re gonna get killed!”

            “Then don’t make me go looking for you at the fucking wall.”

            “Don’t go looking for me!”

            “Show up to meetings, and return my goddamn calls.”

            Us scowls, then pushes himself up. “For fuck’s sake. You’re crazy, you know that?”

            “Well, you’re worth me sticking my neck out for. Deal with it.”

            “You just want—absolution or whatever for the fucked up things you did. I’m not gonna be a part of you feeling better about yourself.”

            “Sorry, Us. I’ve already resolved my feelings about the terrible things I did. At this point, I just look out for you because I care.” I wave him away. “Now that you’ve had your hissy fit, go see about getting the chairs together for group. I need to finish my readings.”

            Us waves back at me. “Don’t do that to me. You don’t just _dismiss_ me, motherfucker.”

            “Oh—no—you see this?” I gesture him back out again. “I can, actually. My office, and you’re a guest. Now piss off until group.”

            He lets out an angry growl, and stalks away.

            Well, it could have gone worse.

 

The two sides of my life came to me on the same day, and I suppose I can thank the Dark Mark for it.

            I’d been in New York a month. I was a much different person than I am now. I was twenty two years old and I had never lived amongst regulars before. Back then, I still thought of them as muggles. The sound was overwhelming. I had spent four years in the sepulchral silence of Malfoy Manor. My need for everything to be _opposite_ brought me to this city, but it was going to be such an adjustment that I had no idea where to start.

            After the first three weeks of hiding in the apartment, watching the outside world and its seeming insanity, I forced myself out of doors. The first day I got about half a block before scurrying back indoors. At that, I was rather cross with myself. I was a fucking disaster, yes, but I was still a Malfoy. Malfoys don’t hide. So I forced myself back outside, and each day the goal was to walk further.

            On the third day, I came across the tattoo shop. There were several around, but at the time one of Jason’s huge, ornate dragons adorned the windows. It was white and silver. It caught my eye.

            At the end of the week, I ventured inside.

            There was no one behind the desk. From the back of the shop I could hear angry little whirs. I’d never heard anything like it before in my life. Nervous, I tugged at the end of my long black sleeves, and called, “Hello.”

            With a minor dip in the buzzing, a gravelly voice yelled, “Door!”

            A few moments later, a round man with a beard and small eyes came through the break between the walls. “Sorry!” he said, leaning against the desk. “Girl who ran the front decided there was no glamour in this life. What can I do for you?”

            I swallowed, keeping my shoulders square. “I’d like to get a tattoo.”

            “Well, we’re not selling milk.” I flushed, and he smiled. “You have anything in mind?”

            _Just make me forget it exists_. Nodding back over my shoulder, I replied, “I rather like the dragon.”

            “She’s one of mine. So you want a dragon?”

            _I don’t care, just make me forget_. “Yes.”

            He picked up a pencil, sticking it behind his ear. “Where were you thinking?” he asked, opening a large book. I didn’t reply right away, to the point where he looked up at me.

            Embarrassed, I realized I was holding my left forearm. Clearing my throat, I let go, and lifted the arm slightly. “I—have a mark.”

            He raised his brows. Knowing him now, I think he could tell I was a special case. “Can I see?”

            _No_.

            But obviously the answer had to be yes. Self-conscious, I unbuttoned my shirt sleeve, then carefully folded it back to my elbow. That done, I set my arm on the high counter.

            He reached out to touch me, and I startled. He paused, and I flinched, thinking of how stupid and skittish I must look. I held myself still. He took my arm into his hands, his brow furrowing as he examined it.

            Four years had passed, and the blackness had gone from the mark. There was no detail to it at all. It had not disappeared, though. It was merely a uniform colour, several shades darker than my natural skin tone, and raised ever so slightly.

            “This is a weird birthmark,” he observed.

            My skin was crawling. I was unused to being touched, and to have someone touch me there was repulsive. I felt myself vibrating, I was so uncomfortable.      

            He caught my eye, and let me go without making a big deal about it. He pulled up a chair, sitting down. “So do you want it completely covered?”

            “Yes. Entirely.”

            Studying me, the bearded man asked, “Is this your first tattoo?”

            I didn’t know how to reply. So after a few seconds, I said, “Is—that something I _have_ to tell you?”

            He laughed at that. “No, I mean—my guess is no. No shame in it. Everybody starts somewhere.” He lifted his arms, covered in dozens upon dozens of small tattoos. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t born like this. So do you have any other ideas? Colour?”

            “I don’t care for bright colours.”

            He took in my outfit—all black—and said flatly, “I’d have never guessed.” I went beet red, and he cleared his throat. “I mean—it’s a shame. Your skin would pick up colour like _crazy_. That’s just my professional opinion. It’s your body, though.”

            “Grey? Could it be grey?”

            “Well, I mean—I’m okay with grey scale, but Rodrigo’s really our grey scale guy.”

            I didn’t know what that meant, but I didn’t want any more people touching my arm. I had more than filled my quota with him. “I also like green. If it’s not too bright…could you perhaps do something in grey and green?”

            He smiled a little, and said, “Yeah, I could probably do something.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jason, by the way.”

            I shook his hand, making careful not to shy away from the touch. “Draco.”

            “Seriously?”

            My hackles raise, as they always did when someone said something about my name. But instead of saying something biting, I merely answered, “Yes.”

            About a week and a half later, I was back. My appointment was supposed to be two months away, but Jason had a cancellation on a back piece and called me in, since I was just down the street and he said he’d come up with something for my arm.

            And it was beautiful. It truly was. It looks nothing like any of the ones I have now, which are all soft lines and bright colours. The design Jason laid on my arm was sharp lined, rather fearsome looking. Jason asked repeatedly if I liked it, if I was sure. I wasn’t overly enthusiastic, but I insisted that I wanted it.

            So I ended up lying on one of the massage tables, my arm out, as he prepared himself beside me. I stared at the ceiling, trying to slow my out-of-control heart. The ceiling was painted with constellations. I tried to think of when I was a boy, and I would go out on the balcony, and I’d watch the stars.

            I tried to think of that, but instead, all I could think of was that evil bald bastard, my arm in one hand and his wand in the other. How red his eyes were, how his terrible mouth smiled but no other part of his face did. “How proud you will make your father,” he purred, and he jabbed the wand into my skin and I thought that I would die.

            “Doing okay?”

            I nodded abruptly, biting my lips together.

            Jason paused, then said, “You sure? It’s better to back out now, man. I’ve got your deposit, and you haven’t done anything you’ll regret.”

            Because I was holding my mouth shut, I didn’t laugh. Rather, I bucked a little. Regret. This thing on my arm—it was a symbol of everything I had done, it stained me for all my life as an unlovable creature, as a murderous, hateful pariah not fit for the world.

            “If you’re sure, we’ll get started in a second.”

            I nodded again, staring at the ceiling.

            The Dark Lord had marked me. But I had asked for it.

            I asked for it.

 _All those people. All the dead_. _How many?_

 _And you think you can_ hide _from that_?

            I swallowed, trying not to think. I tried to focus on the sound of the machines, of the other men working in the room. This had to happen. If I was going to move forward, I couldn’t carry the mark anymore.

            _You coward._ He _died with the mark on his arm. How can you fail him like this? Denying this is like denying everything that he did. You fucking coward_.

            Jason took my wrist in his hand, and I gasped and realized that I was crying.

            It wasn’t a few tears, which I had shed here and there over the years of my confinement. No, the last time I wept like this was when I woke up after trying to off myself, and before that, in the Hogwarts bathroom with a ghost. This was wrenching, from the gut, and utterly uncontrollable. I knew I couldn’t stop myself, and I didn’t even pretend.

            I rolled over onto my side, away from Jason, who didn’t say anything, just shocked into silence. I curled up and cried into my hands, breathless and tired.

            After a moment, I felt a hand on my back. “Hey, buddy. Hey.” This man, this complete stranger, started stroking my back. Me. He was touching me. No one touched me. Didn’t they know? Didn’t they know what I was? It just made me weep even harder.

            It took him a minute or two, but he managed to get me off the table and on my feet. All the time just murmuring to me that everything would be all right, that I was fine, that I was _safe_. Any time he said that I was safe, it set me off even worse. I had a hand over my eyes, and he put his arm around my back and led me to the office in the back.

            Someone was in there, but Jason said, “Bryce, fuck off,” and a moment later he was shutting the door. He maneuvered me to sit down on a leather bench, then sat down next to me. Then this man pulled my head down on his shoulder and wrapped his arms around me, and held me close while I sobbed.

            I’ve no idea how long I cried for. It was excessive, that’s for certain. As someone who knows now that people tend to use tattooists as therapists, I’m a little embarrassed. At the time, though, I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop myself.

            By the time I started coming around, my head was resting on top of his round belly, and there was a big wet patch on his shirt that I had soaked through with tears. Sitting up a bit, wiping at my face, I said over and over, “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—“

            He put a hand to the back of my neck and squeezed. “Hey. Don’t be sorry. It happens.” He looked at me, then wrapped his arm back around me. “Okay, buddy. Okay.”

            I swiped rather pathetically at my eyes, finally reaching a point of mortification. “I apologize, I—I’m afraid I can’t go through with the tattoo.”

            He burst out laughing, and I was horrified. Bad enough that I had made an utter arse of myself in front of a stranger—now he was laughing at me. Jason looked at me, felt me pulling away, and just wrapped his arm around me tighter. “No, dude! Shit, you think I care about that? I’m just laughing because things were tense, and that was funny. Fuck the tattoo. Don’t worry about it.” He jostled me. “I’m keeping your deposit, though.”

            “Too right,” I rushed to say. “I’ll pay you full price, of course.”

            “That’s sweet, buddy, but that’s not how I roll. I don’t do the work, I don’t get the money.” There was a soft knock on the door, and I startled. Jason, calm as anything, said, “It’s just my boyfriend. Is it cool if I let him in?”

            I didn’t know what shocked me more. That this man had a boyfriend, or how casually he mentioned it. I had never encountered anything like it before in my life. I was so surprised that I said, “All right.”

            I tried to shift away, but he continued holding on, leaning us both so that he could unlock the door. “Yeah, babe, come in.”

            A slim black man with light brown eyes poked his head around the door. He looked between Jason and I, my face burning, and said gently, “Hey guys.”

            “Hey babe. I’m gonna be a little late for lunch. So, Derrell, this is Draco. Draco, this is Derrell.”

            To my surprise, the man smiled at me. Smiled, instead of looking at me like I was some sort of weak, unfortunate thing. “Hi.” I merely lifted a hand, no idea of what to do or say.

            Jason said to me, “I gotta go clean up my station, but Derrell’s gonna hang out with you while I do. Okay?”

            “No—I should really—“

            “For real, just stick around. I’m just going to talk to Derrell a second. Don’t move a muscle.”

            Then, to my everlasting shock, as he stood up he kissed the top of my head.

            I was so thrown that I went stock still. He left the room with Derrell, and I stayed precisely as I was, hands in my lap and my eyes wide.

            Until that moment, the only people in my entire life to kiss me had been my mother and father and Margritte. Pansy Parkinson tried to when I was sixteen, but I pushed her off with a blunt, “What do you think you’re doing?” Now this strange man, who I had wept all over, who had a boyfriend, had just given me a kiss like it was nothing.

            And he was a _muggle_ , at that.

            A minute later, when the door opened, I was sitting exactly as I had been left. Derrell closed the door and sat beside me, that same kind smile on his face. “So—having a bad day, huh.”

            I let out a short, bitter laugh. “One could say that.” He didn’t say anything, didn’t prompt me. I didn’t know what to say, so I did the unthinkable and said what should have been unsayable. “You’re—Jason’s boyfriend?”

            “Yeah. A year now.” He raised an eyebrow, looking a bit amused. “Why?”

            “You don’t…exactly fit.”

            “Is it the race thing or the tattoo thing?”

            I frowned. “Why would it be the former?”

            Derrell gazed at me a moment, then said, “Okay. Apparently you’ve come to us from a post racial utopia. I mean, that’s awesome, and I want to go to wherever you’re from—“

            “You don’t,” I said without thinking. “Trust me.”

            “So the tattoo thing. Don’t tell my bosses, but—“ He put a hand to the side of his mouth, and murmured, “I’ve got ‘em all over my chest and back.”

            “Who are your bosses?”

            “I’m a teacher.”

            I yelped, “ _You’re_ a teacher?”

            “What’s so weird about that?”

            “My instructors never had any—“

            But then I was thinking about Severus again. I was thinking about the mark that he died with, that I had so selfishly tried to cover over. He wore that mark for decades, and I dishonoured him, so much.

            Derrell said my name, but I murmured, “I might be sick.”

            A cool hand on the back of my neck, he pushed my head forward. “Deep breaths. In through your nose…out through your mouth. I mean it. In through your nose…out through your mouth.” I followed his instructions, and he said, “Good.”

 

Three days after that debacle, I got a phone call.

            This was peculiar, because I had never received a call before. I bought the phone because I was told it was a thing I needed if I wanted to live among muggles. I stood over the thing for three rings, trying to figure out what to do. I couldn’t even remember how the thing was used.

            Finally, I picked it up, and opened it. I didn’t know what to do next. Should I push a button or something? It wasn’t giving me any indication.

            But then a little voice was coming out of it, saying, “Hello?”

            Lifting it closer to my face, I said, “Hello?”

            “Draco? Are you there? I can hardly hear you.”

            I could hardly hear him, whoever he was. Bringing the phone higher up, I yelled, “Can you hear me?”

            “Buddy, is there something wrong with your phone? I can still hardly hear you.”

            The films they had shown me at the manor were all of land lines. No one had taught me about cell phones. “Just a moment!” I shouted. Puzzling over the thing a moment, I turned it one way or another. Finally, I put one end to my ear, the other to my mouth, and hollered. “Can you hear me?!”

            “Holy—yeah, don’t yell, I can hear you fine.”

            Abashed, I said, “I apologize. New—phone.” I remembered my manners, and the instructions from my lessons. “Who’s calling please?”

            “This is Jason. You might remember my handsome bearded face from earlier in the week.”

            “Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.” I was dumbfounded. Why on earth would he be calling me? I had run out of the tattoo shop a few minutes after Derrell got me to put my head down, too embarrassed to stay still any longer. “Was there an issue with my payment?”

            “No—well, I mean, you sent me a cheque for the full amount, and first off, I told you not to do that, and second, we don’t take cheques.”

            “Oh.”

            “But what are you doing for lunch?”

            I didn’t understand. “Sorry?”

            “Lunch. What are your plans for lunch?”

            Frowning, I answered slowly, “None?”

            “Great. Derrell and I are gonna come get you. Where do you live?”

            “Sorry?”

            “We’re coming to get you for lunch. Give me your address.”

            I didn’t know what to do. Was this some American muggle custom that I hadn’t been told about? I’d taken my course in International Muggle Studies as part of my rehabilitation, but my American module lasted all of two weeks. I knew about their presidents and their interaction with the magical world, not their muggle— _regulars_ , I reminded myself, _they call them regulars here_ —dining customs.

            So I said, “All right.”

            They showed up on my doorstep in t-shirts and shorts, because it was a warm fall Saturday, and then there was me, dressed entirely in black with my long sleeves, my hair falling past my shoulders with no care paid to it. They asked what kind of pizza I liked, and I said I didn’t know, that I’d never had pizza before.

            After I started to almost hysterically say, “Why are you looking at me like that?” they unstuck themselves, pretended nothing was wrong, and took me to lunch.

 

They made a project of me. Jason always teased Derrell for making projects of people, but Derrell told me that Jason couldn’t get me out of his mind. That he’s the one who said, “I feel so fucking bad for that kid.” It’s a good thing Derrell waited a few years to tell me that bit—I don’t care for pity at the best of times, but I would have run in the opposite direction if I’d heard it in the early days.

            Twice a week I would go out with them, either together or with one of them. I don’t think they meant for it to be that much at first, but when it became apparent that I had no idea what I was doing—I asked them why coffee made me so jittery, and how people cut hair in America—they made it their mission to civilize me, as it were.

            Derrell was the practical one, to no one’s surprise. He taught me how to tip at a restaurant, that it was okay to speak to the wait staff, that I was allowed to get up and use the restroom in the middle of a meal if it was necessary. He took me to open a regular bank account. He’s the one who taught me how to use a grocery store.

            Jason was the one who wanted to introduce me to things. He took me to my first movie— _2001: A Space Odyssey_ —at the repertory theatre, and had to shush me repeatedly when I kept saying, “What the _fuck_ is going on?” He fed me strange sweets like Snickers and Pop Rocks, and I was perplexed that there weren’t sweets where you ran the risk of it tasting disgusting (I once had a foot fungus Bernie Botts’ and I’ve never been the same). We went to concerts, and he would just jiggle my arm relentlessly until I’d move with the music.

            “Where the fuck are you even _from_?” he’d say. “Mars?”

            “English boarding schools are a world unto their own,” I’d reply.

            Before my first Halloween in America, Jason started laughing hysterically one day. “You can be Riff Raff!”

            “Beg pardon?”

            “Riff Raff! From _Rocky Horror_!” Derrell punched him in the arm, but Jason just fell back on the couch, wheezing with laughter.

            I tracked the tape down at the video store—which Jason had taught me how to do—and watched the movie. The next time I went out with them, I didn’t say much.

            “You okay?” Derrell asked from across the table. He was barely awake. ‘Problem case’ he said, as always.

            It took me a moment to speak. “You—really think I’m like Riff Raff?”

            Jason’s eyes bugged out, and Derrell dropped his head into his hands, muttering, “You moron.”

            “It’s just—the black—and the long white hair—“ He looked desperately to Derrell, who put up his hands and said, “You made this hole, you dig yourself out.” Jason had to spend a good twenty minutes trying to reassure me, and I made a bad show of hiding how deeply hurt I was.

            It took until the next summer before I’d go out in public with my arms bared. That’s how long it took Jason to convince me.

 

A little after Halloween, I was sitting on their couch for the first time. I’d never been in their place before. Jason was running late, and Derrell kept apologizing for ignoring me, a pile of papers in his lap.

            “Problem cases,” he said. “You know how it is.”

            “How is it?” I asked.

            He paused, then collapsed back against the cushions. “I’ve got seventeen year olds reading at a fifth grade level, I’ve got a sixteen year old who was arrested for armed burglary yesterday, a brilliant kid who’s intent on pissing his life away just so his friends don’t feel stupid, and an administration that’s indifferent, bordering on maliciously so.” He looked at me tiredly. “Never go into teaching. It’ll just break your heart. Well—I mean, I could always try to get in somewhere else—charter school maybe—but then it’s just like letting the bastards win. I don’t know, Draco. Sometimes it just feels like I’m watching a sinking ship.” He tossed his pen down on top of the papers. “And it’s full of kids.”

            And I didn’t even think about it. I thought of all he and Jason had done for me over the last two months. I said, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

            I didn’t know how I possibly could. I said it sincerely—I wanted badly to repay them for their unexpected, miraculous kindnesses—but how could I, of all people, offer any help to this endlessly capable man?

            Derrell opened his mouth, and I could see that he was, to my dismay, about to say ‘no.’ But then he stopped, tilting his head. He looked at me a long moment, then said, “Want to come give me a hand?”

            That terrified me. I didn’t know what he meant. But I had made a promise to myself: when Derrell and Jason asked me to do something, I would say yes. The least I could offer them was willingness. That was what Margritte had always said. So I said, “Of course.”

 

A week later, I was in the Bronx for the first time, following Derrell into a room with chipped paint, a blackboard at the front of it. This was before the Anna P. Adkins Centre got a facelift. In my early days there, it was in terrible shape.

            “Gentlemen,” said Derrell, and the ten or so boys slouched behind desks barely acknowledged him. A few eyed me curiously. “My friend Draco is going to be joining us today.”

            A boy off to the side—he looked more like a man, really, my height and thick, with an insouciant look I knew all too well, took a glance at me and barked. “Holy _shit_ —that’s the whitest guy I’ve ever seen in my life, for real.”

            The others laughed, and I blushed.

            “Draco’s going to help anybody who needs a hand with their math today. Tony? You bring your books?” A boy at the back nodded once. “Okay.” Derrell nodded me on.

            I had more than butterflies in my stomach. I felt like I had a whole bloody butterfly garden in there. I’d never encountered regular teenagers before. Muggle adults were strange enough, but the younger versions, I wasn’t sure what they’d be like.

            I always did well enough in my maths, which weren’t a large focus at school, but which Mother and Father drilled me on. When you’re a Malfoy, you need a sharp eye for accountancy.

            I went to sit with that boy, who was skinny and small, and smelled of armpits. “What are you working on?” I asked.

            “I don’t fucking know,” he replied, pushing the book at me, and I was definitely taken aback.

            “Well—let’s have a look, shall we.”

            I was terribly on edge, and hostility just radiated off the boy. I worked with him the best I could, but he wasn’t exactly receptive. I couldn’t help but be distracted by the two boys on the side. The one who said I was the whitest guy he’d ever seen, and his even taller friend, who had a terrible little mustache and skin a few shades shy of ink. They were talking, barely bothering to keep their voices down.

            Derrell barked, “Roderick! Ty! You don’t have to be here.”

            “I do,” said the first boy. “According to my PO.”

            “Well he doesn’t.”

            “I gotta keep him company,” said the second.

            “I might get lonely,” said the first.

            “You’re gonna get turfed, you don’t keep it down,” Derrell replied, looking much harder than I’d ever seen him before.

            That was my introduction to Roderick, the first boy, and Ty, the second.

 

A page for Derrell came over the intercom, and he said, “I’ll be right back. Behave yourselves.” He gave Roderick a gaze, then looked back at me. I could see him asking me to keep an eye on things, I had no idea how he meant me to do any such thing.

            Of course, five seconds after he left the room, the boys all abandoned their school work, and turned to Roderick and Kwesi. “It’s on, man,” Roderick said, with his big, shark’s smile. “Oh, it’s on, boy. You’re mine.”

            “Nuh uh,” Kwesi said, putting his elbow on the table and holding it up. I couldn’t tell what they were doing. “You got nothing. Nothing.”

            Sidling up to the desk, Roderick took his hand. “You gonna cry when you lose? You gonna cry?”

            I didn’t say anything, simply watching this bizarre ritual from the back of the room. When they started, I realized it was a contest of strength. They were trying to force the other one’s arms down. The both of them were well matched, but Roderick was clearly going to win, right from the start. They strained, veins popping out on the sides of their necks.

            _Teenagers_ , I thought with some disdain.

            When Roderick slammed Kwesi’s arm down on the table, there were cheers and groans. Roderick lifted his arms above his head, then high fived Ty. Looming over Kwesi, he boasted, “That’s how we _do_ , son!”

            “Fuck your mother,” Kwesi grumbled, and threw a twenty at him.

            Still grinning, Roderick said, “Only fair, after what I did to yours.”

            Dee, the youngest and smallest of the group, said, “Man, Myers is gonna be back any second.”

            “Whatever. Fuck that faggot.”

            “Don’t call him that,” I snapped.

            All eyes in the room turned to me. Roderick just sneered. “I’ll call him what I want, cause that’s what he is. What are you gonna do about it? Faggot?”

            He sat back down, laughing with his friends.

            For a moment, I sat there seething. I knew they were children, that children their age tended to be awful, but for him to say that about Derrell—Derrell, who had been so good and kind to me, for no reason whatsoever. Certainly not because I deserved it. I burned with anger at their disrespect.

            The fact that he’d used the same word for me didn’t even cross my mind.

            None of them were looking at me, so I took out my new wand. I’d only had it a few months, unused to its power. I cast a strengthening and weight charm on myself, staring holes in Roderick’s head.

            I slipped the wand back into my boot, then said loudly, “I’ll challenge you.”

            Roderick looked over at me, his brow furrowed, then he laughed. “To _what_?”

            “Whatever it was you just did.”

            “Arm wrestle?”

            Everyone started laughing, but I paid them no mind. “Yes. I challenge you to arm wrestle.” That set them off even harder. Gritting my teeth, I said, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars if I lose.”

            That shut them up. Money usually does, a lesson I learned early in life.

            “Rick,” Ty said to him.

            Roderick put up a hand. He was looking at me, amused. Like he knew everything. “Sure. Come on over. Kwesi, move your ass.”

            I got up, straightening my shirt, and walked over to the middle of the group. The boys were looking at me like I was crazy, but also a bit amused. Ty looked slightly worried. He was the one with the most sense, that I’d observed—I couldn’t figure out what he was doing in Derrell’s after school group.

            I sat down, and said, “How do we go about this?”

            “Man, you should change your mind,” Ty told me.

            Roderick put his elbow on the table, holding up his arm. “Like this,” he said, looking me straight on in the eyes. He held the edge of the table with his other hand.

            Nodding, I put my elbow in place. “Here are my terms. You win, I give you a thousand dollars. You lose, you have to apologize to Mr. Myers for what you just said.”

            “Sure,” Roderick chuckled.

            “White boy,” Francisco said to me, “you gonna get your hand broke.”

            I took Roderick’s hand. “Just tell me when you’re ready.”

            “Count us down, Ty,” Roderick said, grinning.

            Sighing, Ty leaned over the back of his chair. “Three…two… _one_.”

            I felt the pressure of Roderick’s hand against mine, how he tried to immediately slap my arm down. I, however, was about as moveable as stone.

            The befuddled look on his face was remarkably satisfying. He gripped my hand tighter, brow drawing down. I merely held tightly to the table with my other hand and watched him. I could hear murmuring from the boys, but I didn’t look away from him.

            “Having some difficulty?” I asked.

            He tried to force my arm down, but my magic was strong, and I said another thanks to Mistress Teseli for that beautiful wand. Feet firmly planted on the floor, I didn’t move an inch.

            “Jesus,” said Ty.

            “He’s got his arm locked or something,” Roderick gasped.

            “Or maybe you just underestimated me,” I said. “I don’t suppose you’ll make that mistake again.”  

            “You’re cheating! I know you’re cheating!”

            Innocently, I said, “Am I? If I was—could I do this?”

            I pushed his hand to the left an inch, and the other boys started to yell with delight. Roderick’s eyes widened, and he begin to fight even more desperately. I barely felt it.

            “Holy _shit_ ,” said Ty.

            The other boys were taking the piss out of Roderick. I imagined he had all embarrassed them with his strength on more than one occasion, and this was giving them all quite the vicarious thrill. He knew it too, sweat breaking out on his brow.

            Slowly but surely, I began to push his hand down towards the table. He fought so hard—he didn’t give up, not for a single second. Even when I had his hand two inches above the table, he was tilted near sideways, trying to push me back up.

            I put him out of his misery. I pushed the rest of the way, and once his hand touched the surface, I immediately let go as he collapsed.

            The room basically erupted. Ty looked like he had just seen a man walk on water. Kwesi was crowing over Roderick, “That’s how he _do_ , son! That’s how the white boy do!”

            I sat there quietly through it all.

            Roderick sat back up, looking at me with a mixture of anger, shame, and confusion. “How’d you do that?”

            Ignoring the question, I said, “You’ll apologize to Mr. Myers when he comes back. You wouldn’t stand for someone disrespecting your friends the way you did him. I won’t stand for you disrespecting my friend. I hope we’re understood.” I stood up, and the boys moved back from me slightly. “Everyone back to work.”

            They listened to me. And when Derrell came back to the room, Roderick mumbled, “Mr. Myers? I got something to say.”

            When we left the centre later, Derrell finally turned to me and said, “ _What_ did you do?”

            “Nothing.”

            “You did something. I’ve never seen them like that before. And Roderick—he sure as hell didn’t apologize from the goodness of his heart.”

            “People change.”

            From behind us, someone called, “Hey, Mr.—Mr. Draco?”

            We stopped. Ty jogged after us. I braced myself. He was six four, with wide shoulders, and the charm had worn off me by then.

            He stopped in front of us, looking at me. “How’d you do that?”

            I felt Derrell giving me a hard gaze. I lifted my shoulders, and said, “Magic.”

 

I spit toothpaste into the sink, then pull back my lips, giving my teeth a good look. I prefer the regular world, yes, but one thing I cannot abide is the dentist. Back home, you would just drink a potion and it kept your teeth in working order. Out in the real world, though, it takes a ridiculous amount of effort to keep these things in one’s head.

            I will _not_ subject myself to another root canal.

            They look well enough, so I rinse and stick my brush back in its cup. Yawning, I smack the light switch and make my way towards bed.

            I’m thinking of Evan.

            How upset would Derrell be with me if I called the police? Not speak to me for a few weeks kind of mad? Or try to have me fired from the center mad?

            I hate this. I _hate_ it. Over the years, I’ve had boys who were arrested after they left me, once they became men. Trying to get them a job when they get out, it’s near to impossible. But this child threatens to kill everyone at his school, and he’s given all the second chances in the world.

            I don’t want to say it’s because he’s white, but—of course it’s because he’s white.

            It’s not like I can have much angst about that bit. I’m the palest a man can be before actually being classified an albino, but I’m exceedingly aware that in this world my skin colour gives me advantages that so many of my boys don’t get. Now I’ve got a boy who probably shouldn’t have a second chance, who should just go to prison and be away from other children, and he’s being thrown opportunities like they’re on surplus.

            My head back on the pillow, I try and tell myself it’s only until the end of the month. My bit is just to keep an eye on him. But what about when September rolls around again? All the kids come back, and he’s just been fixed in the span of two months? I don’t bloody think so. God only knows when he’ll be set off.

            Not every boy can be saved. Not every boy deserves this.

            _If you could be saved, anyone could be_.

            I roll my eyes. Not everyone turns out this well-adjusted after being a monstrous child.

            _Oh yes. You’re_ so _special._

Fair.

            He said almost nothing at the meeting today. His mother came to pick him up, and she thanked me, but I was fairly cold. I don’t want anyone to get the idea that I like this.

            What if he kills everyone and I didn’t do anything? I trust Derrell—he’s my best friend, him and Jason both—I owe him my life, and I believe he knows what he’s doing. I just have the most terrible feeling about this child. I know what he could be capable of.

            Fuck. This is going to keep me up until the wee hours. I know it.

 

As my eyes open, I’d like to say it’s a surprise, but it really isn’t.

            No. No surprise. Here I am again—ah. Here _we_ are again.

            I’m the first one up on my feet. I walk across the room of nothingness, to where Harry lays on his side. No Cannons boxers this time. Pajama bottoms.

            Crossing my arms, I stand over him and say, “Welcome back.”

            Squinting, he raises his head. His glasses are missing. He looks up at me with momentary confusion. Then he remembers. Rolling onto his stomach, he lets out a growl of utter dismay.

            I roll my eyes. “As you like.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Why haven’t you taken care of this?”

            Shrugging, I answer, “I can’t find her.”

            “Can’t or won’t?”

            “What on earth does that mean?”

            Harry stalks to and fro as I sit patiently on the ground, leaning back on my hands. It’s odd seeing him like this—well, all right, that may be a bit of an understatement. But seeing him without his glasses. How many times when we were children was he ever without his glasses?

            “I mean, how hard did you try to find her?”

            “I spent a good chunk of my birthday trying to find her, Sunday as well, then I looked for her today when I left for work and when I came home.”

            “You _work_?”

            “I do. What do you do for employment these days?”

            “Fuck yourself, Malfoy. And you just couldn’t find her.”

            “Tell me, Harry, when you try to find a person you’re extremely annoyed with, how easy is it for you to find them?”

            He turns, gazing at me from under his brows. “I wasn’t even looking, and yet I found you.”

            “You’re hilarious, and you’ll have to keep trying to wound me. I’ve a thick skin. She knows what she’s done, and she knows I won’t be happy about it, so she’s buggered off.” With a shrug, I say, “She’ll be back. She’s haunted the street long enough. She won’t be able to stay away long. Probably now that she knows how irked I am, it will be even more difficult. She’ll want to crow.” Watching him pace is making me tired just looking at him. “Harry, you’ll put a hole through the floor—“

            “Stop _calling_ me that.”           

            “It’s your _name_.”

            “You’ve never called me it before. I don’t see why you should start now.”

            I breathe in and out a few times through my nose. “I’ve some good news, if you’re willing to take it. The wandmaker sensed the magic on me. She said it wasn’t good or bad, just neutral.”

            That stops him. “Did you ask her to help you lift it?”

            “I did not.”

            “Why the hell not?!”

            “Stone the crows, man, do your friends put up with this level of temper from you? And if you’ve not seen them lately, may I suggest a reason why they might be avoiding you?”

            Oh—that seems to have struck a nerve. It was not my intention, but he gets a nauseous little grimace on his face and turns away. He wraps his arms around himself. “Why didn’t you ask her for help?”

            “Because she had already done me a favour, and when it comes to her, I do not press my luck. You know wandmakers. They’re a dangerous people, and I keep a respectful distance. You wouldn’t just walk into Ollivander’s and ask if he has a few minutes to lend a hand.”

            Harry gives me a flat look. “Ollivander’s been dead for years.”

            I raise my shoulders. “Nonetheless, you understand the point I mean to make.”

            He continues, as if I’ve said nothing. “Never recovered from what happened to him in the manor.”

            Unfazed, I reply, “Do you want me to say I killed Ollivander? I didn’t. You want to blame someone, you know the man in charge, and you already killed him, so….”

            “Yes, you had nothing to do with it. Not like he wasn’t in your basement all those months being tortured.”

            “When he was taken, I was sixteen years old and a man they referred to as the fucking Dark Lord was the one who kidnapped him. It must be lovely to have your unassailable track record of _never_ making the wrong decisions and always being so righteous and pure and never ever anything but entirely right, but perhaps take a moment to think about what it might have been like for we mere mortals.”

            He is not moved. “You made your choices.”

            He is being completely unreasonable, and I don’t see us getting out of this if he doesn’t start using his goddamn head. I hold out my left forearm. “I was fifteen when I agreed to let him put this thing on me. Fifteen. You want me to suffer forever for a decision I made at fifteen?”

            “Funny. That would be about the same time they were clearing out Sirius’ things.”

            “Yes, and the first time my father went to prison. It was an ugly time all around. Could you please—focus on the present, and stop dwelling in the past? Even for just a few minutes. I feel as though you’re going to give me an ulcer, whether we’re in a dream state or astral plane or whatever this is.”

            Harry turns his back to me, and goes to sit as far from me as possible.

            Christ. This is going to be absolutely ridiculous.

            I take a moment to regroup. I lay down, putting my arms under my head, and I don’t move.

            I count to ten.

            That done, I push myself back up, preparing myself for battle.

            “Well! Since you ask, Harry, I have the two jobs. The first is working the front desk at a tattoo shop. My best friend is the owner and proprietor. He’s done every single tattoo I have. My lovely, ever growing menagerie.” I look at the hazy lines of the tiger and the fox and the sheaves of grass. “So I run the desk there part time.”

            “Why are you talking to me?” he says without turning around.

            Undeterred, I continue, “My other job is working with at-risk boys. I started volunteering about seven and a half years ago, then I was hired on for real to help out at one of the community centers. That’s through my other best friend. I help them out with their school work, listen to them, offer some perspective as someone who made some pretty terrible mistakes at their age.”

            “Draco Malfoy,” Harry mutters. “Saviour of the great unwashed masses.”

            I pause. I shouldn’t say anything, but I won’t be cowed by a grown man who’s behaving like a child. “Don’t speak about my boys like that.”

            He turns around at that. I can see the malevolent glint in his eyes. He thinks he’s found something to wound me with.

            Before he can even try it, I say, “And let me be absolutely clear. You ever speak about my children as anything lesser, and I’ll tell you all kinds of things that’ll haunt you. You want to know what it sounded like when Nagini ate Charity Burbage? I can tell you all about that. Or I can tell you about when Voldemort would talk about killing your parents. And he would laugh, and laugh, and laugh….” I raise a challenging brow at him. “Do you know what he sounded like when he laughed?” I shake my head. “Not a word about my children.”

            Harry looks displeased, but he doesn’t push any harder. “Clever. Pretending like you care about some kids.”

            “If you try any harder to be wounded and bitter, you’re going to give yourself a stroke.”

            “As if you’d care, Malfoy. I imagine your whole ruddy family would take the day to celebrate.”

            “My mother saved your life, if you’ll recall. And myself—I’m not a fool. I know you saved us from a terrible fate.” I blow out a breath. “If only the person who’d done that had turned out not to be so damned irritable.”

            “I’m irritable because I’m stuck here with—“

            “And I’ve offered a hypothesis for how you escape, but you’re too busy being bound up in whatever hurt’s been done to you to even consider it. So my guess is that you and I will be visiting each other nightly until you untwist your shorts.”

            Harry shakes his head, his lips pursed. “I refuse to believe that the answer to this solution is to listen to you prattle on until I _break_.”

            “Not break, you melodramatic—to listen. To accept that we are not enemies.”

            “Oh, I’m plenty aware that you’re not my enemy. I have bigger problems than you. But somehow—there you are.”

            I inhale, wanting to go over there and crack him across the head. I’ve wanted to do that practically from the moment I met him, though, and that never went well. “Well, when you told people about this, what did they say?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I mean, when you told people that you had the misfortune of seeing my charming face in your dreams, what solutions did they offer? This might be my doing, but if you want out so desperately, I imagine you’re doing all you can to worm your way out.” I tilt my head forward. “You did tell people, yes? You didn’t just hope that this was a one-time thing and ignore it.”

            “As a matter of fact, I did.”

            Lifting my hands, I say, “Fair enough. Well—since you’re the one who’s never left the magic world, you’re going to have far more opportunities to make inquiries than I. When you wake up, see about asking people if they’ve heard of a way out of this that doesn’t involve you having to be compassionate.”

            “I swear to God, if I could punch you—“       

            “Still friendly with Granger? Back in the old days, this would have been her cup of tea. God knows she was always leagues more clever than you, so perhaps she’ll have some ideas.” He staring at me, so I say, “Are you not friends with her? It’s not my fault I don’t know these things, because you’re not giving me much to go on here.”

            “Of course we’re friends. They’re my family.”

            Nodding, I say, “I thought I heard—didn’t she and Weasley get married? If I’m wrong, don’t jump down my throat. I haven’t heard anyone say their names in years.”

            I’m not sure about his expression. His brows are drawn down—he’ll give himself lines, he keeps doing that—and he watches me, unblinking. Finally, Harry says, “They did.”

            “Still together?”

            “They are.”

            With a shrug, I say, “Good on them. Not often you see that. Not a one of my boys has ever stayed with one of his high school girlfriend, even if they’ve had a child together. Different for magic kind I guess. School’s likely the only time you’re all together with your kind. Hard to meet someone else like you if you’re based out of Swindon. Probably more likely to stay together when the options later on are limited.” My head falls back, and I say, “What is that _look_ on your face?”

            “Are you telling me—you’re seriously telling me that you live among muggles.”

            “Of course I do,” I shrug. “I don’t want to fucking reside with witches and wizards.”

            He turns towards me a few inches, which is probably the most ground he’s given me since this whole thing started. “You—you live with muggles.”

            “Yes. Do you need me to say it one more time, and with smaller words?”

            “You, of all people….”

            “Me, of all people. They didn’t just let me out a year early because I was well behaved. I did my rehabilitation, and I actually listened to what my lessons were. After that—between three years of intensive muggle studies and pulling my head out of my young arse, it became exceedingly clear to me that I never wanted to live with magic kind, ever again.” I study my fingernails. “I only go to the magic quarter if my mother sends me a parcel I have to pick up, because she refuses to use a real courier. Beyond that, I don’t live near magics, I don’t have magic friends, I don’t talk to magics. I live with regulars, I fuck regulars, my friends are regulars.”

            Harry says, “It’s a shock you didn’t kill your mother.”

            That makes me grin. “It was close, let me assure you.”

            “Magics? Is that what they call us in the States?”

            “Oh, it’s a regionalism, and me being PC at that. Non gendered.” I use finger quotes when I say, “’The wizarding world.’ Bit sexist, don’t you think? Even saying witch and wizard, that’s adhering to a fairly strict gender binary.”

            “You must belong to a cult. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”      

            “I think you need to get away from wherever you are. The world changes. Do you not realize that? Back home—they never let you forget. They never let you move on. Community small enough to fit on a postage stamp. Everyone remembers everything you’ve done, and what your parents did, and theirs, going back to the founding members of Hogwarts. No thank you. It’s not healthy.”

            Harry says, slightly dazed, “Healthy. Draco Malfoy is telling me what’s healthy.” He falls onto his back. I hear a sad little groan rising from him. “This is all some terrible….”

            I wait. “Oh, go on. You want to say it.”

            “Dream,” he spits out.

            “Don’t be so sour. When you wake up, just go do your research—or have Granger do it for you, same as always—and see if you can cheat your way out of this.”

            He pushes himself up onto his elbows. “I will do.” Harry catches himself. “One, I’ll do my own research, and two, it’s not cheating. It’s finding a better way.”

            “Yes, avoidance of empathy is always the right solution.”

            “In the meantime—stay out of my head.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            Harry sits back up, looking stubborn. “You got us into this mess, so you can stay out of my head. You want to prove you’re so different? Don’t sleep when I sleep.”

            Crossing my arms, I drawl, “You _must_ be joking.”

            “Do I look like I’m joking?”

            “There’s only a five hour difference. What time do you get up in the morning?”

            “Eight, most days.”

            “I—am not staying up until three in the fucking morning just because you want to be a grumpy bastard. I’ll go to sleep the same time I always do, and get up the same time as always, and if you’re that dead set on avoiding me, you’ll just have to alter your own sleep schedule.”

            He actually says, “What time do you go to bed?”

            “Eleven.”

            “I’ll get up at four if I have to. I swear I will. But you’re the one who got us into this—“

            “And I’m telling you the solution to get out, which is to behave like an adult. I can sit here every night and battle with you if I have to, because I’m quite comfortable in how I’ve ended up, thank you, and I can handle this low level snit you seem to have gauged yourself at. You want to rearrange your whole life just to prove you’re not emotionally mature, be my guest. I’ll be getting my eight hours, same as usual.”

            “Emotionally mature,” Harry muttered.

            “Yes. You might want to try it.”

            He bites his lower lip. This time, it looks like he’s trying to drill through me with his eyes. “Let me just…be absolutely clear about this. Your life—your life has turned out fine.”

            “It has.”

            “You’ve no serious complaints. No real traumas lately. You feel secure in your day to day and all that.”

            Cautious, I say, “Yes.”

            Harry raises his arms to the nothing above and roars, “ _Unbelievable_!” As he goes on, he continues to gesture with his hands, cheeks darkening. “Of all the people—all the people in the world to walk away from that mess, and you— _you’re_ the one who gets to live a decent life? Tell me where the fucking fairness is in that!”

            “Who told you anything was fair?”

            “Even if they had, I would have stopped believing it a long time ago. Agh—I hated you before, but this—this is just the icing on the cake, Malfoy. It’s just the icing.”

            Patiently, I say, “I’ve earned my life.”

            “Shut up, would you?”

            “I’ll do no such thing. I committed crimes, I served my sentence, then I went on to live a life that was in repudiation of the things I’d done before. I deserve my life. And I have worked hard for it. Be irrationally angry to your heart’s content, but that won’t change that I have what I deserve.”

            Eyes wide, Harry says, “It’s a _damned_ good thing I can’t hurt you.”

 

This is ludicrous.

            “Harry,” I say.

            That gets no response.

            I try snapping my fingers a few times, clapping my hands. “Harry Potter. Harry! Harry _James_ Potter!” I put my pinkie and index finger into my mouth and let out a piercing whistle. “Harry!”

            But no. There he sits, his hands over his ears.

            I cannot believe he is nearly thirty years old. I mean, I have difficulty realizing that I’ve made it to thirty, but the man in front of me is behaving like an utter child. He’s almost curled into a ball, his eyes closed tight and his hands shutting out sound.

            If I could throw something at him, it would be helpful, but all I have are my clothes, and I think that if I took my tank top off and chucked it at him, it would merely fall through him.

            This is not good for him. Not that I care about Harry Potter—I’ve never cared for him, and with good reason, I’d say—but I don’t like to see anyone do such deliberate damage to themselves, short of actual physical damage. I don’t know what’s happened to him in the last twelve years, but it’s astonishing that I came out with the better side of the bargain.

            Fine. If he wants to play, I’ll play. They didn’t just sort me into Slytherin because of my last name, after all.

            Pushing myself up, I walk over. I sit down right in front of him, putting my hands on my knees.

            Then I lean forward and say, “The Boy who _Lived_ —“

            He scrambles away from me, up onto his feet. “I told you not to fucking call me that.”

            I watch him walk away, but he doesn’t try to go through the walls again. He sticks his hands in his hair, keeping his back to me. When he lifts his arms like that, I can see a little strip of skin at the base of his back. I do love when a man does that.

            If only it wasn’t attached to such a cranky git.

            “What bothers you about it so much?” I ask. “You can’t be unused to it by now.”

            “I don’t like it, is all.”

            “Oh, better to be The Man Who Lived, then?”

            He turns around, faint horror dawning on his face. “You said you hadn’t heard anything.”

            “You forget, it came out my final year of confinement.”

            “You read it?” Harry says, looking a little green around the gills.

            With an eye roll, I elaborate, “I _had_ to. It was part of my rehabilitation.”

            He looks off to the side, then puts his hands to his eyes. “Oh— _fuck_. I’d forgotten about that. Thanks. Thanks, Malfoy, I needed that.”

            “What are you complaining about? You came off the hero, same as you always do. Me, good old dependable Draco Malfoy, was the ingrate who dared try to stand in the way of your predestined glory. Written down for _generations_ to read.” Taking a deep breath through my nose, I mutter, “I can only imagine they’ve made it part of the curriculum at Hogwarts.” Glancing at him, I see him look ill again. “God, it is, isn’t it. You must love that. Gone from Hogwarts, but still they talk about you.”

            “I don’t love it, I’ve never loved it—“

            “You wrote an autobiography. Yes, that says, ‘Please, leave me alone, being the blushing violet that I am.’”

            Frustrated, Harry replies, “Better that I told my story than have every hack publishing some tripe every other week until I died.” He walks in circles, arms wrapped around himself and his head down. “Not that I wanted to have anything to do with it. Hermione talked me into it.”

            “Of course she did.”

            “Not—not just her, it was—do you realize, that until that book came out, the top selling book about me was that horror show that your old friend Rita Skeeter put out? I should have let everyone believe what she said instead of speaking up for myself?”

            Shrugging, I say, “Or you could just not engage at all.”

            “That wasn’t an option.”

            “It’s always an option.”

            “Not when you’re me.”

            “Being Harry Potter comes with a certain amount of power, doesn’t it? You dictate the terms. If you don’t want to talk, you just don’t. The people with any sense will know what you’ve done, and the rest are either idiots or they were rooting for you to be killed as a child. I don’t know what you want to convince them for.”

            Frowning at me, he says, “What are you trying to convince people of?”

            “Me? Nothing. The only person I need to convince is you so that I don’t have to put up with your face anymore. I’ll think you’ll note, though, that I’m not inundated by reporters. Hell, you don’t even know where I am.”

            “Don’t remind me. I’m furious enough as it is, you getting to walk away unscathed while I’m on display.”

            I blink at him a few times. “Un—scathed?” I say frostily.

            Harry glowers as he mutters, “Mr. my life is perfect, I got everything I wanted and everyone leaves me alone, four years of house arrest instead of Azkaban. Yes, Malfoy, I’d say you emerged unscathed.”

            Well.

            I take the bottom of my shirt and lift it all the way to my shoulders. Then I raise a brow.

            Harry stops. He takes in the scars that criss cross my chest, my ribs, my belly, and I’d say the stricken expression on his face was gratifying, but I don’t want anything from him that is even related to pity.

            Tossing my shirt down, I say evenly, “Yes, I forgot how I—and the people I love—all emerged from the war without a scratch. How we all lived happily…ever…after. Funny, how not a one of us took a mark, or ever had to deal with consequences.” I lift the hair off the right side of my head, showing off the old healed gash that looks as if I had brain surgery, only with a surgeon who didn’t know about the existence of stitches. “Lucky me, wouldn’t you say?”

            He swallows, looking away from me. “It was an accident. You—you know it was an accident.”

            “Of course I do. You were sixteen and didn’t know what you were doing. But don’t stand there and tell me every moment of my life has been ideal.” I smooth my hand over my hair, covering the scar again. There’s the other one, just as bad, but it’s on the top of my head, and it’s hidden easier. “You never apologized, incidentally.”

            “Apologized for what?”

            “For making me read all about your sob story upbringing. No, Harry.” I gesture to myself. “For maiming me.”

            He shudders, angrily. “You agreed, it was an accident.”

            “I’ve done the mature thing and apologized for my past behavior. Stands to reason that you’d be a man and apologize for doing this to me.”

            Harry stands there a moment, and I wonder if he’s actually going to do it. But then he shakes his head. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I apologize to you for anything, Malfoy.”

            “Yes, well, be sure to mention that to Granger tomorrow.”

            “What?”

            “When you tell her about this. You’ll tell her all about this, and you’ll do your very best to make me look as terrible as you can, and she’ll say, ‘was there anything else’ and you’re going to remember this. You’re going to remember that I apologized, but you refused to. You’re going to remember how calm I am, how in control I am, and how utterly ridiculous you must have seemed to me, how infantile, refusing to apologize for nearly killing me. You’ll remember it exactly like I’ve said, when she says, ‘was there anything else,’ and you won’t be able to get it out of your head. She’ll be able to tell, too, that there’s something you’re keeping back. And she’ll keep on you until you’ve given it up.”

            “I’ll do no such thing,” Harry says through gritted teeth.

            Utterly certain, I say, “When you tell her that I apologized to you, tell her that I apologize to her too.”

 

I almost fall off my bed. What the _fuck_ was that?

            Something woke me up. Something loud.

            Rubbing my palms into my eyes, I yawn, and _Jesus_! It sounds like someone has thrown a piece of furniture at the other side of my bedroom wall.

            I roll onto my knees, and pound my fist against the wall a few times. “It’s the middle of the fucking night! Shut up!” I fall onto my back, reaching out blindly for my wand. Waving it in the direction of the wall, I mutter, “ _Muffliato_.”

            I curl up, already falling back asleep with my wand still in hand. Stupid neighbours. Stupid Potter.

            Unscathed. Unbelievable.


	6. Chapter 6

We were among the first to be prosecuted.

            It made sense. Father and I were some of the only Death Eaters to survive the battle. Mother had never been stupid enough to take the mark. God, she begged me not to. But I was so angry about what had happened to Father—that my father, the great man, had been put in prison, thanks to that horrible half breed—that when _he_ asked, I said yes. My aunt suggested he might ask, and Mother was as frantic as I have ever seen her. I said things to her that I’m not proud of. She slapped me, and I deserved it. But I went when Voldemort called, and I took his mark, and so there I sat two years later, before the Wizengamot, confirmed Death Eater.

            The trial took place a month after the battle. It happened so fast, and it also seemed like it would never come.

            We had sat in the Great Hall when the battle was done, not sure what to do with ourselves. Mother held my hand, and Father looked like he was about to fall over, but he stayed pressed to my side. Everywhere there was the dead. Everyone was weeping. No one was thrilled that the Dark Lord had been defeated. They were just exhausted. So were we.

            I was thinking of how they had appeared from nowhere. I had thought I would never see my parents again. All I had tried to do was make it through the castle alive, and everywhere I looked people were fighting and dying, and myself, I had no wand. I couldn’t do anything, and I tried to simply hide, but nowhere was safe. The castle was coming down around our heads, stray spells landing everywhere and taking chunks out of the brick.

            I’d just been thrown back after pleading with a Death Eater not to kill me—I was one of them, I was one of any side that just wanted to fucking _live_ —and it was like I’d been hit with something. I went down, and so did he. I hit my head against the wall, and things went fuzzy a while.

            When I lifted my head, Wexley Arethene was pointing his wand directly at my face. He was no one important—always at the periphery. But now, here he was, looking like he was about to kill me. I suppose he was.

            “Traitor,” he hissed. “Your whole fucking family is traitors. He’s _alive_. She said he was dead, and he’s alive—“

            Almost simultaneously, I heard, “ _Avada Kedavra_!” and saw a green glow. He was thrown back with the force of it.

            Mother was running down the hall, a wand outstretched, and Father just behind her. She looked half wild, and he was near in tears. I didn’t know what else to do. I reached up, and they both fell upon me. Mother wrapped her arms around me, and Father took the wand and cast a shield charm around us all before grabbing us both. She didn’t move, just squeezing me so tight that I couldn’t breathe, and Father kept touching my hair, her hair, touching us to make sure we were real, that we were alive.

            Finally, I said, “I lost your wand.”

            Mother said, “I don’t _care_.”

            We stayed there until the noise reached its crescendo downstairs. When it did, I felt a horrible suction against my arm. Crying out, I lifted it up—and Father did the same.

            Father whispered, “He’s dead.”

            My sleeve was torn, and I could see through to the mark. It was twisting, the snake opening its mouth—then it froze. It never moved again. Eventually, it would fade.

            I grunted as Father drooped against me heavily. After a moment, I realized he was weeping. I had never seen my father cry before. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. I didn’t know what to do, but I didn’t know what to do about anything else either, so I just wrapped my arms around his middle and held onto him.

            “You’re alive,” he whispered. “ _You’re_ alive.” He grabbed my mother, and she touched his face. “Thank Salazar. We’re alive.”

            “Of course we are,” Mother said, but she started crying too.

            When it was quiet, we got up and went downstairs. Cautiously, mind you. But no one seemed to care about us. So we found a spot and sat. We sat for hours together.

            Until Aurors came, and Mother handed over the wand she had picked up along the way.

            At first, they stuck us in Slytherin tower. It had the best dungeons, after all. A week after that, they moved us to the cells at the recently reclaimed Ministry.

            And there we stayed for three more weeks.

            By that point, we were used to being forced together in close quarters. This time, though, we didn’t have the specter of sudden death or ingestion by snake hanging over our heads. Father wanted to have a lot of talks about what would be expected of me, and Mother held him back as much as she could, until one day she said outright, “His doing what you thought he should put him here, Lucius. Enough.”

            We were given warning about the trial a day in advance. We had no access to our accounts from there, so we could not get anyone to represent us. Besides that, I don’t know that anyone would have taken the job. There weren’t many who offered to stand for Death Eaters after the war.

            “It’s better this way,” Mother reasoned. “We go in, we do our best to be humble—yes, I said it, and the both of you must stop making that face. These people expect repentance. It doesn’t matter if you mean it, they just need to believe it. We go in, we say our piece, and we let them do what they will.”

            “We know how this will end,” Father said quietly.

            She looked at him, her eyes inching slightly towards me. “We don’t know everything.”

            They had no idea if I would go to Azkaban or not. I was convinced I would. Father was trying to be positive about it, but Mother has always been far more of a realist.

            We went before the full Wizengamot—what was left of it. I was surprised by some of the new faces. Professor McGonagall sat near to the back. I couldn’t meet her eyes, so I don’t know how closely she looked at me.

            It was difficult work to keep my temper in check. I had done what I thought was right. What I had been _taught_ was right. These were the beliefs I had been instilled with from birth. Now all these people thought to sit in judgment of me, my mother, my _father_. They didn’t know. They spoke as if we were evil, as if they were all so fucking _pure_. It was easy to be smug on the winning side, obviously.

            They tried us together, for the sake of brevity I suppose. They were eager to put the world back together again. So I sat there while they said endless things about my father. When it was my mother, though, I could barely keep myself contained. She had to put a hand under the table, wrapping her fingers around mine, squeezing every time someone spoke about how cold she had been, witnessing every murder, every trespass.

            “I did what I had to in order to keep my family alive,” she said, never bowing her head.

            “I only did what I thought best,” Father said, looking about ten years older than he should. “I did what I believed was right, and I am sorry I was so wrong.”

            I said little. I was angry, but not so stupid that I didn’t understand an outburst could affect my entire future.

            Then when the famous Harry Potter sat before the Wizengamot and testified, it was almost unbearable. He was ever so calm and collected, and they were entirely enamoured of him. My evil family on trial, and Potter—the fucking golden son, as always—was revered as a saviour. I listened to him speak about me, obviously barely holding back his contempt, but telling them how I hadn’t been able to kill Dumbledore. How he believed I never would have. That he had seen in visions Voldemort forcing me to do things.

            He had seen. He had seen what the Dark Lord made me do.

            “Is this true?” someone with a deep voice asked.

            I said nothing. I did not look at them. I looked at the ground, and tried not to tremble. I’d not show them that part of me. I would not shake before these people. Even if they knew.

            Even if he had _seen_.

            “Mr. Malfoy—is this true?”

            Mother leaned over, whispering to me that I had to speak. I didn’t respond, not to her words or to her grip on my hand. It didn’t matter if this was the thing that kept me from a lifetime in prison. I couldn’t talk about it. Not wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

            From the back, a prim Scottish accent arose. “I think, Minister, that sometimes a lack of answer is an answer in and of itself.”

            I shut my eyes tight. _Don’t. You don’t know what I’ve done. Don’t defend me._

_I don’t need to be defended. I did what I was told._

_The things I’ve done_.

            The deep voice said, “Quite right. We’ll continue, Mr. Potter.”

            The trial lasted a total of four days. Eight hours each day, listening to the litany of our crimes, and only the one person stood to defend us. And it was fucking Harry Potter. It was surreal.

            When at last judgment came, it was still a blow. Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, for murder, treason, and crimes against wizardkind, found guilty. As he had shown himself coerced by the Dark Lord after his escape from prison, his sentence had been commuted from life to twenty years.

            I thought I would throw up. I had known he was going to prison, but I hadn’t believed it. Twenty years. In Azkaban.

            _And I might be going with him_.

            Narcissa Malfoy, for abetting multiple criminal acts, but having done so under coercion, five years of house arrest without a wand. She took it without blinking, simply nodding once. From beside her, I could see her quivering.

            “Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

            I made myself look up. Still a Malfoy. That name might not mean anything to anyone besides we three, but I would bow no longer.

            Shacklebolt said, “We find you guilty of crimes against wizardkind.” Mother and Father both inhaled in horror, but I did not react. Shacklebolt paused—the bastard paused—then said, “However—owing to your age at the time of your initial involvement, as well as testimony stating that you were compelled upon pain of death into committing many of these deeds, your sentence shall also be five years house arrest, wandless.”

            Mother actually dropped forward a few inches, and Father put his hands on the table. He lowered his head, closing his eyes. It was the first time I had seen him smile in weeks. It was exhausted, yes, but it was meant.

            “Do you have anything to say to the court?” Shacklebolt asked us.

            “No,” Father said quickly. “No—we thank you for a swift and judicious decision—“

            “House arrest,” I said, suddenly realizing.

            All eyes turned to me. “Yes, Mr. Malfoy?” Shacklebolt replied.

            I stared at him. “You don’t—you can’t possibly mean the manor.”

            Mother put her hand on my arm as Shacklebolt nodded. “It is your home, Mr. Malfoy. Would you prefer other accommodation?”

            “We accept the court’s decision utterly,” Mother said, fingernails digging into my arm. I looked at her, in horror. Didn’t they know? Didn’t they understand? She shook her head at me slightly.

            “Excellent. Your sentences will begin immediately. We are adjourned.”

            They all began to rise, and suddenly there were men in black robes coming for Father. It was all so fast.

            He looked at them, and asked, “Might I say goodbye?”

            They told him to make it quick, and I couldn’t believe it. He was going away—again. Back to Azkaban. He had been a wreck when he came out. Twenty years—God, what would twenty years in that place do to my father?

            He and Mother both stood up, and looked at one another a long moment. They were never very demonstrative in front of me. In front of anyone. But this time, he took her hands, and brought them to his mouth. She leaned her head towards his, closing her eyes. Father kissed her hands, and murmured, “My love.”

            Mother whispered, “I will be waiting.”

            When they parted, he turned to me. What was I supposed to say to him? My father, taken from me again—by these people, these fucking blood traitors and half breeds and mudbloods—all because we weren’t part of their perfect muggle loving world.

            He put a hand on my shoulder, and said, “Listen very carefully—“

            “They can’t,” I whispered. “Not again—“

            “They have. Stop and listen to me now, Draco.” He leaned in close, dropping his voice to barely a breath. “Defeat is only ever temporary. Nothing I ever told you changes. This world—is yours. It is ours, and people despise that about us. Just because they hate it, does not make it any less true. Stay strong, for me, for your mother, and remember who you are.” He lifted his hand to my cheek. “Who are you?”

            “I’m a Malfoy,” I replied, steadying myself.

            He nodded. “Yes you are. It will fall to you to re-establish our name. And you will. Once you have—we will rise.”

            I took a deep breath. “Like the dragon, we rise.”

            We shared a private smile, then he wrapped his arms around me. “Take care of your mother. Know that I love you, and I am proud of you. You will be the man you were meant to be.”

            “I love you,” I murmured against his shoulder.

            He let me go, then turned to face his captors, shoulders straight and head high. “And what are you lot waiting for?” he said, and I could hear the sneer in his voice. It made me smile, and I watched as he practically led them away.

            I looked over as Mother took my hand. I threaded my fingers through hers, not caring what people thought. We watched him go, and I was proud of him. I believe she was too.

            “Mrs. Malfoy,” a voice said behind us. “Mr. Malfoy.”

            Then I remembered.

            “Five years,” I said. “In the manor.”

            Mother said, “We will endure.”

 

“Can I ask something?”          

            I almost trip, I’m so surprised that Evan has voluntarily spoken. I’m walking him home, because his mother is working. The young man even has a babysitter waiting when he gets home, and he’s sixteen. I know I should find it comforting that he’s being watched at all times, but I know what confinement does to a person.

            “If you like.”

            He doesn’t look at me, watching the ground as he walks. “I…heard something. Around.”

            “Yes?”

            He says nothing for a long moment, his hair hiding his eyes. Then in a rush, he says, “Is it true you stood in front of a gun that went off?”

            “I did.”

            The act might have been worth it, because Evan actually looks up at me. I can see his eyes for once. There are large circles around him, like he can’t even remember the last time he slept. “Why?”

            Shrugging, I say, “There are people who will drag you down in life. One of your classmates has one of those people. He thought it better to communicate with a gun than words. It didn’t end well for him.”

            “What happened?”

            “Something wrong with the gun. It sort of—imploded, I guess.”

            “What was it like?”

            Shaking my head, I say, “I am not talking about what it’s like to stand in front of a firing gun with someone who’s said he wants to shoot everyone, then himself.” I glance over, and he’s fully retreated, head down. Oh, well done, Draco. Bloody excellent. “I’m not saying that to hurt your feelings. I’m saying it because it’s the truth, and the rest of the people in your life would probably try to gently guide you away from the topic, but that’s lying in slow motion.” I stick my hands in my pockets. I’m wearing slacks and a green dress shirt, despite the heat. I have an appointment after this. “What’s the fascination, by the way? With guns. I’ve never quite understood.”

            “I dunno.”

            “Is it the bang? The amount of damage they cause?”

            “I dunno.”

            “I come from a family that wasn’t large on guns. Knives, though. I had an aunt who was obsessed with knives. She was a bit—dotty, though.” I think about it, then admit, “Frankly, she was out of her fucking mind, but I try not to think about my family that often. You’ve never said—where’s your father? Have you ever had one?”

            Evan mumbles, “He died. When I was twelve.”

            “I’m sorry to hear that. How did he die?” Evan looks at me with furrowed brows, so I stop. “Listen, I don’t do kid gloves. If I did, no one would ever listen to me. Do you like when people coddle you? Treat you like you’re fragile? Some ticking time bomb that can be set off with a single word?”

            “No.”

            “So would you prefer that I be honest and forthright with you, or would you prefer I behave like every other adult who’s swaddled themselves up in denial about your intentions? I’ll tell you now, no matter what, I’ll do the former, but I’d like to at least know you recognize the difference.”

            He looks at me blankly. “What?”

            Rolling my eyes, I say, “Do you want me to treat you like a fragile school shooter or a regular person?”

            Blushing, he scuffs his feet a second. “Regular.”

            “Good. Let’s keep walking. So your father. How did he die?”

            “Heart attack.”

            “That’s unfortunate. Losing a parent so young.”

            “Victor…said…your dad’s in prison?”

            “He is.”

            “What for?”

            “Murder and treason.”

            “ _What_?”

            We’re at his apartment, and I nod him on. “I’ll see you Friday.”

            Evan eyes me. “You’re joking, aren’t you.”

            “No, I will see you on Friday. That’s not optional. Oh, about my father—no. I’m not.” I lift a hand in farewell, turning around. “I’m off! Places to be!”

            I hear him sigh behind me. Interesting. That means he’s at least a little engaged.

            That’s a hell of a lot more than I expected.

           

I sit in my uncomfortable chair, hands folded on the table. I hate this outfit. It makes me feel constricted. Sleeves covering my tattoos, collar done up. Especially given the heat.

            It’s not too busy around me. Seven thirty on a Wednesday evening. No kids this time. School night. Not many people who want to take their kids to Rikers on a weekday. It’s mostly couples. I recognize some of them. A few of them are long time visitors, like myself. You get to recognize each other, nod as you go through the rigmarole.

            I resist the urge to tug at my collar, instead thinking.

            No Harry Potter in my dreams last night. I guess he’s choosing to remain childish and wake up inordinately early. Either that, or Granger came through with shocking speed. I’m fairly certain it’s not the latter.

            Still no sign of Mrs. E. I am starting to wonder if she’s ever coming back. Maybe she’s dead.

            Maybe she’s been nicked.

            I’m smirking when the door opens, and my visitor comes into the room. His eyes swing around, quickly spotting me. I raise a hand, turning my smirk into a smile as I stand.

            Roderick smiles back as he reaches me. “Hey man.” We hug. Briefly, though. It’s all that’s allowed. Two slaps on the back, then he steps back, and we sit down.

            “How are you?”

            “I’m awesome, man. I’m working on my backhand.”

            Narrowing my eyes, I say, “Is that some sort of masturbation thing I haven’t heard of?”

            He cracks up. “No, it’s a tennis thing.”

            “Oh, ha ha. Make me look doubly stupid, why don’t you.” I cross my arms on the table, looking him over. That scar over his eye has finally faded a little. He’s huge, but besides reading and working, I know he doesn’t do much in here other than work out. “I’ll assume you’re the star of the Rikers Island all male tennis team.”

            “Does tennis _have_ teams?”

            “You’re the bloody tennis star, shouldn’t you know?”

            “They use—rackets in that, right?”

            Scratching my head, I reply slowly, “I think so.” We catch each other’s eyes, and grin. “For real, anything interesting happen in the last two weeks?”

            He leans back in his chair, crossing his thick arms. “You know—same old. Finished _The Invisible Man_.”

            “You procrastinating bastard,” I say. “Weren’t you supposed to read that for eleventh grade?”

            Showing me teeth, Roderick replies, “Better late than never.”

            “You need anything else? I’m making a trip to the bookstore this weekend.”

            Roderick drops his head back, thinking. “Um—oh, I can’t think of the title. Fuck, what was it?”

            “What’s it about?”

            “It’s a Toni Morrison one, man. With the ghost or something.” He snaps his fingers. “ _Beloved_. Can you get that one for me?”

            “Sure.”

            “I really appreciate it, Dre. You ever read _The Blue Eye_? Aw, that did me in. And they don’t have _Beloved_ in the library, but I really want to read it.”

            “You know I have you covered.”

            He smiles at me, lopsided. “I know you do.”

            I’ve been coming to see Roderick every two weeks for the last five years. I’ll come until I die, or he does, I suppose. He was the first of my boys to go to jail. I see the others when I can, but he’s my friend, and I don’t intend to leave him here alone, no matter what he did.

            “How’s work?” he asks.

            I growl. “That fucking nimrod is going to be the death of me. He used—an 11 round magnum for multiple passes. Multiple. That poor woman.”

            “Dude, when’s Jason gonna fire his ass?”

            “Never,” I mutter darkly. “Apparently having a mother who died on September 11th gives you a free pass for stupidity ad infinitum.”

            “My cousin Rafe died when Building 1 came down. Where the hell’s my free pass? Is this some more whites-only bullshit?”

            “Yep. We had a meeting. Decided the national tragedy free pass was only available to pale faces.”

            “Ain’t that always the way,” he sighs. “How’re your boys?”

            “Oh—same as always.”

            He bends his head forward, looking at me from under his brows. “What’d you do?”

            “Don’t give me that look, young man. I—all right, I might have had to stand in front of a very small gun to convince Us to come to meetings.”

            “Who the hell was on the other side of this gun?”

            I hesitate, then say, “Nines.”

            Roderick leans towards me, then quickly sits back. If we were allowed to touch more than the quick hello and goodbye hug, I think he would smack me across the head. “Nines? Man, I’ve been in here with Nines, you don’t—“ He points at me. “Ya crazy. That’s all. Ya crazy.”

            Shrugging, I admit, “Probably. Oh, you’ll love this. Derrell unloaded a potential school shooter on me three weeks before the end of school. I’m basically a baby sitter to make sure he doesn’t explode.”

            “Lemme guess,” Roderick says with a straight face. “White.”

            “You bet.”

            “Of course. Man, that Uncle Tom friend of yours—“

            “Oi.”

            “He’s always giving free passes to the white boys! You know it, I know it. He was like that when I was in school too. That’s just internalized racism, man. That’s institutional. He should take a look at himself.”

            “I’ll pass that along.”

            “Yeah, be sure you do.” A shadow passes over his face. He pauses before saying, “Hey, have you—heard anything from Ty?”

            I give my head a shake. “Not since he left for the internship.” I want to say, _you know I would have told you if he had_ , but I don’t have the heart.

            Roderick just shrugs, putting on a smile. “That’s my boy. England. Seeing the world. Making time.”

            “He’d better be learning, not sightseeing.”

            “Yeah.” Roderick thinks a moment, then says, “You know what was on my mind, the other day?”

            “What’s that?”

            “You remember that talk we had about Ty? Way back in the day?”

            I know what he means. “I do.”

            “Sometimes I think about that. You were pretty blunt, motherfucker.”

            “I was new to this.”

            “Yeah. Well, I was thinking…you know, there are days when I wish I’d never listened to you. Wonder if things had been different, if I hadn’t.” Before I can speak, Roderick lifts a hand. “Not like—I mean, I’m not coming down on you, man. Or maybe I am, a little. But don’t you think it kind of sucks? That everybody wrote me off?”

            “I didn’t write you off. I just said that he wouldn’t succeed if you kept holding him back.”

            Roderick shakes his head, giving me a knowing smile. But his eyes are sad. “I guess. I was just thinking about it. How people make decisions when they’re kids, and they don’t know where it’s gonna take them.”

            After a moment, I say, “I understand that.”

            “Most days, I feel pretty good about that decision, at least. If I hadn’t, who knows. Maybe he’d be in here with me. Then there are the days, I wonder, maybe I’d be out there. I try not to look back too much, you know, but…sometimes I can’t help it.”

            “I don’t think any of us can.”

            Roderick takes in a deep breath, then shrugs it off. “Shit, look at me getting all introspective in my old age. Hey, speaking of old, tell me about your birthday.”

            I roll my eyes, and I tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love comments. If you want to holler at me on Tumblr, I'm at e-sebastian.tumblr.com. If anyone can figure out how to make a link work that has a dash in it, for the love of God, tell me how.


	7. Chapter 7

“Uh oh, Dre.”

            I raise my head. “What? Don’t say that. What could possibly be wrong?”

            Victor nods towards the window. I follow his gaze. Derrell is striding across the basketball court, towards the back door of the center. He’s walking with his head down, stride quick.

            “That can’t be good.” I glance around at the group. “Which one of you?”

            They all beg off, so I raise a brow at Us. He lifts his hands, the picture of innocence. “Don’t look at me.” I want to believe him. He’s been perfectly behaved the last two weeks. Hasn’t missed a meeting. He’s been his usual smart ass self, yes, but he’s here when he’s supposed to be.

            Pushing back from the table, I look around at the boys. “Just behave yourselves. We’re days away from the end of term. We’re a hair’s breadth from being free of each other for the summer.”

            “And here I thought you cared,” says Richie.

            “I’ll care more if you finish that paper, Richard.”

            I walk across the room and out into the hall. Oh dear. Something’s obviously happened to him. Derrell gives me a weak little smile as he comes to meet me. I wrap my arms around myself. Best to prepare for the worst, I suppose.

            “Stop it,” he says.

            “Stop what?”

            “You look like I’m about to tell you someone died.”

            “You’ve got a look about you that tells me you might be.”

            He nods over his shoulder. “Office free?”

            “Certainly.”

            We walk silently down the hall. I’m starting to think that maybe it’s not school related. Maybe it’s something personal. Because, of course, I’m the most qualified person to speak to _that_.

            I let Derrell into the office, closing the door after him. I could sit beside him, but I like to have a barrier when people bring me their issues, so I sit behind the desk. Crossing my arms on the surface, I ask, “What brings you here?”

            He slumps in his seat. “You’re gonna kill me. But.”

            I just get a feeling. All I have to do is look at him. “Let me venture a guess. Evan.” Derrell winces, scratching a cheek. Slumping, I say, “What could you possibly think I could do now? They’re done school in a few days. I did as you said, I kept him an eye on him three times a week until the end of June.”

            “And I appreciate that.”

            “But?”

            “But—I’ve got a therapist who can see him once a week. His mother’s got him a job washing dishes. We’ve been trying to get him to come to group here, but—I brought him in on Therese’s group, and it didn’t go well.”

            “I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

            Very carefully, Derrell says, “I know it’s short notice, but—what would you think about helping out with the Tuesday/Thursday group?”

            I gaze at him a moment, then say, “Fuck off. Don’t do that to me a week before summer starts.”

            “Come on, you know—you know I wouldn’t ask, but I talked to Evan’s mom, and you’re about the only one of us he doesn’t seem to hate.”

            “Oh, excellent, I’ve earned the attention of a budding serial murderer.”

            “Don’t be like that.”

            “No, Derrell. If you wanted to talk about me taking on more here, you should have talked to me months ago. Isaac’s going on the road in two weeks, and Leanna’s going the week after that. I’ve already made my commitments at the shop.”

            “Come on, it wouldn’t be that hard to—“

            “ _No_. I love my work with the boys, you know I do, but I have a responsibility to the shop. I’m lucky Jason lets me get away with working half days twice a week as it is. Thank Christ I don’t actually need the money.”

            “Really?” Derrell says. “What’s more important to you? A kid’s life, or making sure some Williamsburg jackass gets a Sailor Jerry knock off on his back?”

            “What’s important to me is that I am not a psychiatrist. You pay me a pittance to keep these boys in line with their school work, and I do all that I can to keep them from making stupid decisions, but I’m not actually anyone. I’m not trained. I do not have the capability to fix whatever is broken about that boy, and the only reason anyone is even suggesting me is because I come cheap. He needs more help than I can give, so find someone who can give it to him. He’s not my problem.”

            “A lot easier to come over here from Brooklyn and save a few potential bangers, isn’t it.”

            My hands curl into claws, and I glare at him. “You really want to get into this fight? Want to tell me I have a white messiah complex? Fine. Be my guest. I won’t mention the fact that if Evan was black and threatened to kill everyone at the school, he would have been arrested weeks ago.”

            “That’s not fair—“

            “Well, it’s not fucking polite to come in here, ask me for another favour when that child makes my skin crawl, and then smack me across the face with the accusation that I only care about the boys because it makes me feel less guilt about the colour of my skin.” I put my hands out, inhaling sharply through my nose. This could escalate. “Listen—I understand that it is end of year, and we’re all under plenty of stress. But I am working full time hours at the shop this summer, Monday to Friday, and I’ll be here, like I said I would be, on Monday and Wednesday evenings. As per our agreement.”

            Derrell shrugs. “Agreements can change.”

            Mouth falling open, I say, “Are you _serious_? Do you just not want me to work here anymore? Is that what you’re aiming for?”

            He rubs his hand over his face, groaning. “No. No, of course not. But—Draco, I need help with this fucking kid—“

            “He needs professional help. I am not a professional. You’re so invested? You be his best friend. I have prior commitments.”

            Derrell drops his hand into his lap, pursing his mouth. Whatever he’s thinking, I’ll hate it. I know I will.

            Nonetheless, I growl, “What?”

            Derrell takes a deep breath, then says, “Draco, you are so, so good at what you do here. These kids react to you in a way I’ve never seen. You have this incredible talent, and if you decided that you wanted to go to school—“

            “Oh for fuck’s sake. So this is the conversation you have with your boyfriend, is it? How I’m wasting my time at the shop, being loyal to a man who’s been my friend for eight years?”

            “You are,” he says bluntly.

            “I get _satisfaction_ from my job. I do what I do, and I do it well—“

            “But it’s not what you should be doing.”

            Hairs on the back of my neck raising, I say, “I don’t respond well to people who think they should dictate what I do with my life. My answer’s no. I’m not bailing on Jason at the last second just because you hate him and you don’t think my job’s important.”

            “I don’t _hate_ Jason—“

            “No, I don’t suppose you do. It would almost be easier if you did.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “I mean, you look miserable. How’s the latest one treating you? Sunk in yet that he’ll never make you happy?”

            Derrell grits his teeth, and snaps, “That’s great, coming from a man who’s never had a boyfriend.”

            “Yeah, it’s easy to throw stones when I’m not the one who abandoned the love of my life for propriety’s sake.”

            That does him. Pushing himself up, he says, “Fuck you, Draco.”

            “And yourself,” I call after him as he storms out the door.

            Christ. He should know better. I know he’s not been doing well the last few months, but thinking he could come in here and change my whole schedule a week before summer starts—something more is going on. I’ll call him later when he’s had a chance to calm down.

            Well, doesn’t this put me in a bind. I’ll admit, the last few weeks, Evan has been—fine. He only speaks when he’s spoken to, but Victor made him laugh in meeting a few days ago. That’s something. If I didn’t know what he’d written in that journal, it might be a different story.

            As it is—that boy just hits a little too close to home in some ways.

            I can’t bail on Jason. It’s simply not feasible, and beyond that it goes against who I am. When I make a commitment, I stick to it. Loyalty may not be a thing I learned until late in life, but it means a great deal to me now. And perhaps people think I’m not making use of my full potential, but I honestly do like my work at the shop. I like the organization, the control, the ability to help my friends do their work.

            But yes, a child’s future might hang in the balance.

            Ah—there’s an idea.

            The sides of my mouth curl upwards a little, and I leave the office, heading back to the study room.

            The boys are mostly quiet. Victor and Yadiel are murmuring to each other, but I’m willing to bet Victor is helping with Yadiel’s English instead of simply nattering. It’s beyond gratifying to see Us bent over the table, focused completely on whatever he’s writing.

            “Us!” I snap. His head shoots up, and the other boys give him the ‘what did you do’ look. I crook a finger at him.

            Confused, he gets up, and I slip back out into the hall. He comes through the doorway, on the defensive. “Don’t even, Dre, I know I haven’t done nothing—“

            “No, you haven’t. I just needed them to think you had.”

            “What? What the hell are you doing that for?”

            Crossing my arms, I say, “I need a favour.”

           

“Dude, you still single?”

            Flabbergasted, I pause before saying, “Eternally.”

            “My cousin M’kail just broke up with his boyfriend. He’s a nice guy, man. I was thinking I’d give him your number.”

            I shake my head. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

            “Why not?” Us protests.

            “Because you are one of my responsibilities and it would just be _weird_.”

            He purses his mouth at me, but I can see the sparkle in his eyes. Then he looks at Evan, who’s walking between us, and says, “What? You didn’t know Dre was gay?”

            Evan hasn’t said much, which isn’t a surprise, but he seems more intimidated by Us than any adult I’ve seen him around. The boys look up to Us—of course they do. He’s their age. Evan stutters, “Uh—“

            “I mean, for one thing, look at him.”

            “That’s offensive,” I respond.

            He merely counters, “What’s wrong with looking gay? You think there’s something wrong with looking gay?”

            “I’m not having this conversation with a boy whose friend called me a faggot.”

            Us pulls a face, but he turns his attention back on Evan. “You have a problem with gay people?”

            “N-no.”

            Us looks him over, and asks, “You gay?”

            “No,” Evan’s quick to say.

            “It’s okay if you are. Dre’s good people, and he’s gay as _fuck_.”

            “Language,” I sigh.

            “Seriously, dude, it’s okay if you’re gay.”

            “I’m not,” Evan says.

            Us shrugs, hiking up his pants. I wish so badly that he would wear a proper belt. Then again, as someone who spent two decades wearing robes, I’m not exactly in a position to judge. “You got a girlfriend, then?”

            “No.”

            “What about—hey, isn’t that Inez girl in your English class? You know who I mean, right? The one who always has the braids on top of her head.”

            Evan can’t reply for a moment. I imagine it’s because he can’t believe Us has noticed what lessons he’s in. It might be that he can’t believe anyone has noticed him at all. “Inez Guerrara?”

            “Yeah, that’s her. She’s so _quiet_. Fine, but quiet as hell. All about the books. She’d never give a guy like me the time of day. But you’ve got that quiet thing going for you too. Maybe you guys could be quiet together.”

            Blushing, Evan murmurs, “Shut up.”

            Us just laughs at him. He’s so comfortable teasing this boy. I wonder if he’d be the same if he knew why Evan’s with us. Somehow, I half think he might be.

            “But Dre, for real, M’Kail is a good guy.”

            “I’m not talking about this with you.”

            “What happened about being open and honest?”

            “How many times do I have to tell you that’s when it comes to you boys? I don’t have to tell you a damn thing if I don’t want to. I’m in charge.” I shudder, and remark, “Besides, imagine how quickly I’d be sent packing if I spoke to you boys about my sex life.”

            “Who’s talking about sex? I’m talking about dating. He’s the kind of man you marry.”

            I put my hands over my ears and say, “La la la la.”

            When I drop them, Evan is laughing softly. His face changes when he does that. He looks like a boy, and the circles around his eyes don’t seem so deep.

            “New topic,” I say. “Job?”

            Us preens, “I’ll be working as a cook all summer. You of little faith.”

            “Ye of little faith.”

            “Ye means you.”

            “Damn it, stop being right. It’s obnoxious.” I nod to the boy beside me. “Evan will be working in a diner as well.”

            “Really, man?”

            Evan shrugs, mumbling, “Just washing dishes.”

            “Hey, money’s money. What are you gonna spend it on? Saving it up? Or you got your eye on something?”

            For a moment, Evan doesn’t say anything. He worries at his lower lip. “Probably pens and pencils and paper and stuff.”

            “You like to draw?”

            Barely above a whisper, Evan says, “Architectural design.”

            “You like to design buildings?” Us says.

            “God, I’d never have the intellectual capacity,” I add.

            “What kind of buildings do you like to draw?”

            And for the next five minutes, until we get him to his apartment, the two of us manage to get Evan talking about building design. It’s the first time I’ve seen him string more than two sentences together at once. As he speaks about this subject he’s obviously interested in, the volume of his voice rises incrementally. We don’t have to ask as many questions.

            We deposit him on his door, and Us holds out a fist. “I’ll see you Monday.” Evan looks at his hand a moment, then gives him the most awkward fist bump ever witnessed by mankind. But Us just smiles.

            “Have a good weekend,” I say, and Evan nods, looking at us both. He clears his throat, then turns and goes inside.

            Glancing at Us, I nod towards the sidewalk, and we keep walking.

            When we reach the end of the block, I say, “So what do you think?”

            “About Evan?” Us looks back over his shoulder. “That boy’s _quiet_.”

            “Any other observations?”

            “I don’t know. Should I have been making observations?”

            “I’m just wondering what you think. I’m a little—close to the situation. I want an outsider’s perspective. I trust yours.”

            Us doesn’t say anything for a moment. I see him draw himself up a little taller. “Well—he’s smart. Maybe not like—scholarship smart or anything, but he seemed to know what he was talking about with all that design stuff. He doesn’t really say anything at group. I’ve seen him a few times, since he started coming, you know, in the halls at school. Honestly, man, if you’d told me before that the kid went to my school, I wouldn’t have known if you were telling the truth.”

            “He’s invisible.”

            “Yeah. I guess so.” Us shrugs. “Seems okay, though.” He looks over at me. “Look, I know you aren’t gonna tell me, but what’s he doing with us? It’s the end of the year.”

            “You’re right. I’m not going to tell you.”

            After a moment, Us says, “You don’t like him.”

            I don’t respond right away. “What makes you say that?”

            “Observation.”

            “Smartass.” I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders. Sticking my hands in my pockets, I say, “I’ve a question for you.”

            “Shoot.”

            “When do I give up on someone?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Oh, I’ve been thinking about it since I saw a friend some time back. The name Roderick Johnson mean anything to you?”

            Us doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. “He was one of your guys. He’s in prison, right?”

            “Yeah. My first year. He was my first problem case.”

            “What’d he do?”

            It’s a matter of public record, so I don’t feel bad telling him. “The year after he graduated, he and his friend went in to rob the minimart down the street from the school. It wasn’t Illerman’s then, it was the Joy Luck Number One. The family who owned it sold it after what happened. But anyways—Roderick and this friend—a man named Jackie Grimes, couple years older than Roderick—they go in to burgle the place, and it turns out there’s an off duty cop in there. She pulled her gun, and Jackie shot her. Shot her three times. Then he killed the kid behind the counter so there’d be no eyewitnesses. The shop owner’s kid. He was sixteen. Jackie, he ended up getting himself shot when the cops came for him. Rick, he called me, said he was in trouble. I went and got him, took him to the station myself so no one would have an excuse to shoot him. Didn’t matter that he turned himself in before the warrant had even come down. Even if he wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger, he was guilty of robbing that store, and as soon as someone got killed, it was first degree. The fact that Jackie killed a police officer and a minor? Rick drew life, no parole.”

            “Jesus,” Us mutters. He sighs. “I remind you of him, don’t I.”

            “Sometimes,” I say, not bothering to dissemble. “You’ve got that same attitude that he did. Not thinking about what the consequences of your actions could be.”

            “I do.” I arch a brow at him, and Us admits, “Sometimes.”

            “The truth is—you don’t just remind me of Roderick. I’ve told you about his best friend—Ty.”

            “Man, you wouldn’t shut up about him. He’s like Jesus Christ to you.”

            “I can’t help but be proud of him. First of my boys to really make something of himself. He was just—God, he was fucking brilliant. He could do anything he wanted. But he thought that doing that, showing that he was interested in something _big_ , people would think he was a traitor. That he was deluding himself, or that he thought lesser of them. All that teenage bullshit you boys wrap yourself in.”

            “Language.”

            “Fuck yourself. Roderick—they were best friends. Lived on the same street all their life, like you and Michael. Closer than brothers. And Roderick—it sounds harsh to say this, but it was the truth. He was an anchor holding Ty down. Sometimes a person needs an anchor. They need stability. But other times—a person just needs to be set free. So a few months after I met them, I went to Roderick, just him and I, and I said to him, you’re never leaving here. You don’t want to leave here. There’s nothing I can do, no pleading or begging, that’ll shake you from that. But if you don’t tell Ty to get his act together, he’ll never leave here either. And maybe that’s good for you, maybe that’ll make you happy, but what will it mean for him?” Crossing my arms, I step around a chunk that’s been taken out of the concrete. “See, I want to believe that every boy can save himself, but the truth is, not all of you can. I’ve seen children kill each other. I had a year where one of my boys, out of nowhere, jumped on another and started stabbing him in the neck. Not everyone can be saved. But—where’s the line where I just let them loose?”

            Finally, Us says, “You’re asking _me_?”

            “You’re smart. You’re more than smart. Yes, I’m asking you.”

            “Are you asking about Evan? Or are you asking about me?”

            “Both. Or all of you.”

            To his credit, Us doesn’t answer right away. He walks with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes on the world around us. The place where he’s spent his whole life.

            “Never,” he finally says.

            “You’re certain?”

            “Yeah, I am.”

            “What if they seem hell bent on destroying themselves? Or not living up to their full potential? Hell, what if they frighten me?”

            Stubborn, Us shakes his head. “Never. Everybody—everybody wants to be saved.” He makes a face. “Unless they’re a psycho. You can’t really do anything about them.”

            “I can’t save anyone,” I remind him gently. “I can only convince you to try and save yourself.”

            He gives me a crooked grin. “Are you trying to tell me I’m my own anchor?”

            I hit him with my elbow. “Look at how _clever_ you are.”

            He snorts, then he seems to think a moment. Pulling out his phone, Us says, “You’ve got Evan’s number, right?”

            “I do.”

            “Give me his digits. I’ll see if he wants to come help me with my Legos tomorrow or something.”

            My jaw drops. Reaching for my phone, I only say in half serious shock, “You’re going to let someone else look at your precious toys?”

            “They’re not _toys_ ,” he says peevishly. “They’re Legos.”

            With a grin, I give him Evan’s number. Us programs it into his phone, then starts texting.

            Once he sends off the text, he nods with some satisfaction. “Everybody wants to be saved.” He glances at me. “Whether they say it or not.”

            I give him a little smile, and we keep walking.

           

No plans this evening. I’m pretty relieved by that.

            I intend to just sit back with the book, doing my research, give my boots a shine, and beyond that, do absolutely nothing. Even though it was only a half day at work, I still had to deal with UPS over the phone for nearly an hour. An entire box from Element has disappeared, and for some reason Freddy is blaming me for it, making snide comments at every turn. I’m trying to take the high road, but _Christ_ it is difficult.

            I come around the corner, bag of take-out in hand. Naan and palak paneer, and a root beer. A strange combination, maybe, but I like what I like.

            Is that—

            Yes it fucking is.

            I take off running. Mrs. E is about to step onto a bus at the end of the block. I haven’t seen her in weeks—not since the day before my birthday. Now there she is, real as life, in her skirt and scarves, like she can just show up again after putting a spell on me.

            “Oi!” I holler.

            She looks up, and waves with a smile. She steps onto the bus.

            “Don’t you dare, you fucking witch!”

            Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave—

            The bus pulls away as I reach it. I scramble along the side, looking for her. She just smiles beatifically at me, giving me another little wave.

            Pointing at her, I yell, “I’ll get you! Swear to Christ, the next time you set foot in this neighbourhood, I’ll—“

            But the bus pulls away, leaving me feeling like a fool, hair fallen over my eyes.

            Shoving it back, I hiss. Then I lift up my bag. Fuck. I probably shook up my root beer with all that running.

 

When the phone rings, I can’t say that I’m all that surprised by the caller ID.

            I let it go to the third ring before answering. “Yes?”

            “I should not have told you to fuck yourself.”

            “No, you shouldn’t have. And?”

            “And I shouldn’t have sprung that on you a week before summer.”

            “No. Apology accepted. I’m sorry I made the crack about your romantic life.” Closing this ridiculous book, I stretch out along the couch, picking up my root beer. It finally settled enough for me to open the bottle. He’s not speaking. Why isn’t he speaking? “Was there something else I was supposed to apologize for? It was a few hours ago, so I’ve forgotten.”

            “Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that Ryan and I have broken up.”

            I silently punch the air, and say, “No, dear, I’m not pleased to hear that at all. When did this happen?”

            “Last night.”

            Head dropping back on the cushions, I say, “Why didn’t you call me?”

            “I didn’t want to hear ‘I told you so.’ That’s why.”

            “I’m sorry you’re not happy, Derrell. You know that’s all I want for you, yes? I know I speak before I think at times, but I really do only want you to be happy. I’m sorry you’re sad.”

            He sighs softly. “Yeah. Draco, I….”

            Say it. Say it, you bastard. I know you want to say it. “What, dear?”

            “Nothing.”

            “You know you can tell me.”

            “You’ll say I told you so. I know you. I know you’ll say it.”

            “I’ve never told you to get back together with Jason. Not in the last three years.”

            “Do you remember what you told me when we broke up?”

            “No, I’m afraid I was a little hysterical. You’ll have to remind me.”

            “You told me that I had no idea how badly I’d regret what I’d done. Doing what I thought was expected of me instead of what was right. I thought you were being naïve. That you didn’t understand how the real world works. And now—God. God, Draco, what the fuck have I been doing?”

            I set the bottle back down on the table, and sit up. “All right, I’m coming over.”

            “No—I’m fine. I’m just—I’m upset about the break up.”

            “Yes, so I’m coming over. Don’t be daft. You want me to pick up liquor on the way or have you already taken care of that bit?”

            A few beats pass. “I’ve already taken care of it.”

            “I’ll be there soon, then.”

            “Okay. Hey—Draco?”

            Standing, I say, “Yes?”

            “I love you.”

            With a sigh, I say, “I love you too.” Because I do. And it’s going to take an act of God on high for me not to say ‘I told you so.’

 

I fall asleep on Derrell’s couch. It’s late, and he got a bit choked up and I had to hold my tongue about some of the stupid things he’s done. For the best. He’d just come back at me for all the stupid things I’ve done, and too right.

            I go to sleep in my clothes, and then here I am. For the first time in weeks, I’m in the bright nothing, on my side.

            Rolling over, I find Harry Potter standing as far from me as he can. He looks like death. Huge circles around his eyes, hair even more of a disaster than usual.

            I sit up, leaning back on my hands. “Caved, then.”

            He grits his teeth, hands forming fists at his sides. He swallows, then pushes out, “We should…talk.”

            I don’t know why I can’t help but feel a bit smug. “Granger couldn’t come up with another way, could she?”

            Harry inhales, then gives his head a shake.

            With a nod, I gesture for him to sit. “Well. Let’s talk.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Should we start at the beginning?”

            “Wherever,” Harry mutters.

            With a roll of the eyes, I say loudly, “We’ll start at the beginning.”

            He and I are sitting, legs underneath ourselves, facing each other at about a distance of six feet. This close, I can see he looks even worse off than first impressions. He’s fallen asleep with his glasses on again. Well, it’s his own fault for refusing to sleep through the night for weeks on end, due to his childish aversion to me.

            “First time we saw each other?”

            He juts his chin out, in what I suppose could be a nod. Us does the same thing.

            “Very well. First impressions of me.”

            Harry cocks his head, and says flatly, “Are you certain?”

            “Goodness, Harry, that was almost considerate.”

            “No, I’m simply saying that if you want the truth, I might—lose my temper rather quickly.”

            I wave him off. “You’ve always been that way. Go ahead. Do your worst.”

            He takes a deep breath, and says, “First time I saw you, I started to dislike you starting—about thirty seconds after you spoke.”

            “And why’s that?”

            “You….” He stops a moment. “Huh.”

            “What?”

            “I just realized something. You were the first young wizard I ever met.” His eyes darken. “So the fact that you were a prat was all the more disappointing.”

            “How was I a prat?”

            With disdain, Harry says, “You were your usual charming self. Sounding so bloody bored about everything. Eleven years old, about to go to Hogwarts, and you sounded _bored_.”

            I raise a brow. “I was about to go to the school I’d been told I’d be going to since birth. Did you expect me to be falling over myself with excitement?”

            “The others were.”

            “Not the ones who were going to Slytherin.”

            “Well, there was something wrong with the lot of you.”

            I wrap my hands around my ankles. I’m going to have to spell it out for him at every turn, aren’t I? He’s spent nearly two decades with his opinion ingrained. I’m not sure how long it’s going to take me to chip the stone off this one. “You’ll note that the hat put a certain kind into Slytherin. Almost to the last, we were all pure blood. That meant we all knew each other’s families. We knew each other. We had grown up with magic, we had been taught and told about Hogwarts. That’s not to say I wasn’t excited to go to Hogwarts. I was. But I wasn’t taught, like some people, that it’s appropriate to display every emotion you feel at every moment of the day, without considering what you say first.” I shrug. “I’d think you’d be more surprised that I even spoke to you in the shop.”

            “What, that you deigned to speak to me?”

            “Well—yes, in a way.” Before he can work himself into a lather, I say, “You were unknown to me. I’d no idea who you were. That meant you weren’t pureblood. But I still spoke to you. I was excited enough about Hogwarts that I spoke to someone my parents spent the previous eleven years telling me not to speak to. Maybe I wasn’t going about with my eyes all agog—like some people—but I was so pleased to go to Hogwarts. How could I not be?”

            Harry says, “Because you thought you’d _rule_.”

            I pause. The man does have that irritating ability to be canny out of nowhere. “Quite. My father told me that I’d have run of the school. That Malfoys always had. I’d take Slytherin, and I’d be prefect, and I’d be Head Boy. Because of course I would. It was a foregone conclusion. It was what I had always been told.”

            “Didn’t work out that way, did it.”

            “No. Someone insisted on thwarting me at every turn.”

            “Oh, I’ll weep myself to sleep for you.”

            “I’d appreciate that. I do so love pity.”

            “Ugh.”

            “So that’s why you disliked me from the moment we met? I wasn’t properly giddy enough for you about—living in the world I’d always lived in?”

            Harry rolls his eyes, like I’m the moron in this situation. “Don’t be daft. You were saying—your usual rubbish. Bragging.” He stops a moment, glowering. “You reminded me of my cousin.”

            Leaning forward, I take a few seconds. “I—reminded you of that piggish looking muggle you grew up with?”

            He blinks, startled. “How—do you know what Dudley looked like?”

            “I knew you’d be coming back. It was inevitable. And I knew we’d have to have it out like this. So I’ve been doing my research.” Unhappy, I say, “I’m currently on my second read through of your magnum opus in as many weeks.”

            Harry stares at me, then says with horror, “You’re not.”

            “Oh, I am. I’ve just reached the part where you and the other two go on the road looking for Horcruxes without a bloody plan.”

            He puts his head in his hands a moment, shaking it. When he looks up again, Harry says tiredly, “I’ll never forgive you for putting me in this position. Never.”

            “I’ll never forgive myself for putting myself in a position where I had to actually go into a shop and buy _your_ autobiography. At least in rehabilitation it was provided to me. This time, my hard earned money had to go into buying—“ I spread my hands, as if looking at a marquee. “ _The Man Who Lived_.”

            “I hate you.”

            “Reconsider that, or we’re here forever.” I thread my fingers through my hair a few times, then tuck it back behind my ear. Not like I have to worry about showing off the scar to him. He’s the one who put it there, he can damn well look at it. “So—I reminded you of that idiotic regular you lived with. In what way?”

            “Entitled. You thought you were owed the whole world.”

            “Of course.”

            Face screwing up, Harry says, “Not of course! No one’s _owed_ the world!”

            “Obviously. I’m saying, that’s what I was taught as a child. Of course I believed it.”

            Harry’s nostrils flare, and he leans forward. “You know what? I don’t believe in your ‘I couldn’t help myself, it’s what I was taught’ excuse. Plenty of people are taught terrible things, and they don’t act on them. I’m sure your parents were telling you not to play with the filthy little mudbloods from the moment you were born. Just like my cousin was taught he was the center of the universe. Meanwhile, at the same moment in time, I was being told I was nothing, that I was a burden and no one, treated no better than a servant, and what did I do? I kept my head up, I kept my manners, and I didn’t let them break me. Just because an adult tells you a thing when you’re a child doesn’t mean you have to _listen_. You should just know better.”

            I wait for him to get it off his chest. Then I say, “You’re missing the obvious.”

            “And what’s that?”

            “Your cousin and I were loved, and you were not.”

            Ah. No missing that. It lasts but a second, but I can see the flicker of hurt across his eyes. It’s a pain that goes back decades. Probably his whole life. A moment later his face is like stone again, but I know what I saw.

            Sometimes it’s good to know that a person can hurt.

            “It’s quite easy to give your ‘I’m morally superior to everyone because I was raised in a cupboard’ speech, but you don’t understand the burden of love.”

            “Love is not a burden,” Harry snaps.

            “It is. The kind I’m talking about is. You honestly tell me, you never looked at your cousin and thought, ‘He might have turned out all right if it wasn’t for _them_ ’?” There’s a slight wrinkle between his brows, and I say, “What?”

            It’s begrudging, but Harry admits, “Dumbledore said something—rather like that once. About Dudley.”

            With a shudder, I put up my hands. “Oh God, I take it back. If he said it, clearly I’ve been wrong this whole time.”

            Jaw dropping, Harry says, “You can’t possibly….”

            “Can’t possibly what?”

            “You’re—you’re going to sit there, tell me you’ve changed, but you’re still going to go off about Dumbledore?”

            “Why wouldn’t I? He was terrible.”

            He goes a bit dark in the cheeks. Strange, that we can do that in a dream state. I suppose we’re just psychically projecting ourselves. He’d do that out in the real world, so he’s doing it here.

            Voice a growl, Harry says, “Take that back.”

            “What are you? Twelve? No, I won’t do any such thing. He was a terrible person, a _terrible_ headmaster. Don’t get me wrong, he was a great wizard. I don’t deny that. A great wizard indeed. But he should have never been headmaster.”

            Harry glares at me a long while. I hold my ground. I believe what I’m saying. I do no one any favours by lying to placate him. “Oh, we are never going to get anywhere,” he says.

            “You can’t honestly tell me, with this much—time and distance, that you believe he should have been in charge of that school.”

            “Of course he should! He was the best headmaster Hogwarts ever had.” I scoff, and Harry says, “Don’t _laugh_ —don’t you dare laugh. I was there on that tower, I know what he did to keep you from becoming a murderer, so don’t think you’re in a position to mock him.”

            I shake my head. “He did me the one good thing. At the _end_. He knew, all year, what I was trying to do. And what did he do about it? He let me just go about it. I could have killed Katie. Do you realize that?”

            “It wasn’t his fault—“

            “It was my fault and _his_. It’s not a case of either/or. I was a child, he was the adult, and he knew I was on a mission of murder in his fucking school. And he didn’t do anything to stop me.” Holding Harry’s eyes, I continue, “He didn’t stop me, because it wasn’t convenient to his _plan_. He let it drag out, let me torture myself, let me nearly kill other students, all to get us to that night. That night—that fucking night, Harry. He said that he could protect my family. That’s what I wanted. That’s what I wanted—more than _anything_. You cannot understand that. Voldemort was going to kill them all, and I had to do this, and Dumbledore—the great wizard—he could have kept us safe. He could have kept me, and my mother, and my father _safe_. Or maybe he couldn’t. But he never offered it until that moment. He was just trying to keep me from killing him so that Severus could do it. So that Severus would be in the proper position. The man who killed Dumbledore. The man that the Dark Lord would never doubt that he could trust. All to get Severus into that office, to hold the fort until it was time for _you_ to die. He used us all like pawns, and I’m not naïve. It was war, and people have to do terrible things in a war. But we were children, Harry. Don’t you dare sit there and tell me that he was the best headmaster Hogwarts ever had, because he offered up children’s lives like they were nothing. That might be a great wizard, a great soldier, but that’s _not_ a good headmaster.”

            I realize my own cheeks have turned red. I make myself settle back. It’s easy to get worked up about these things. I picture my boys—laid out like the Creeveys. That’s all it takes.

            When Harry speaks again, much of the animosity has gone from his voice. “It was a war for the whole world. People had to be sacrificed.”

            I let out an angry breath. “Says a man who clearly doesn’t give a damn about children.”

            His temper flares again, and Harry snaps, “Then who would you have had as the bloody headmaster? S—“

            “McGonagall!” I snap back.

            It’s quiet a moment.

            Harry has pulled his head back. He looks befuddled, but I can’t take any satisfaction in it.

            “McGonagall,” he repeats.

            “Of course McGonagall. Who else?”

            “I—thought you would have said Snape.”

            “Oh for—he never wanted to be headmaster. He did it because he was enamoured of Dumbledore, just like you. He would have done anything the old fool said. But if you want my opinion of who should have been headmaster in the war years, I say McGonagall.”

            “You could never stand McGonagall.”

            “No, because I was an idiot teenager who thought I’d be part of the team ruling the world. I keep trying to hammer it into your head that I don’t have the same opinions as I did then. McGonagall—she would have never made the reckless decisions that Dumbledore did. She would have done her _job_ —not going off and finding Horcruxes on her own—not putting them on her fucking hand just to see what would happen. Her only priority, ever, was the children of that school. That’s a good headmistress. You never heard about all the showing off McGonagall did, trying to prove to the world how brilliant she was, because she never did. She _was_ brilliant, one of the finest magics of her or any age. She would have died before letting that school fall. Dumbledore died half from stupidity and half his own machinations. My vote’s for McGonagall. Without question.”

            Another silence. Harry just sits there, blinking those vibrant green eyes.

            Finally, he clears his throat. “Well.”

            “Yes, well.”

            “She’s—she’s still headmistress.”

            “Good.”

            Harry crosses his arms. “Abolished sorting.”

            Jesus Mary hallelujah. I toss up my arms. “Thank Christ. That should have happened centuries ago. If it had, maybe we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess.”

            “There was an awful uproar about it. The rest of us, none too pleased about having to give up a millennia of tradition just to keep an eye on you lot.”

            “Oh, yes, there’s never been a decent Slytherin. Not in the whole history of Hogwarts. Never been a single one who did a good deed.” I lift my head, as if listening to something in the distance. “Wait—did I hear the name Severus Snape?”

            Harry mutters, “One out of a millennia. Yes, you should all be very proud.”

            “You really think that what that school needed after the war was to continue with the same entrenched positions? Brave ones here, smart ones here, the evil ones here, and then the rest of you, off to Hufflepuff. That makes sense to you?”

            He growls, then flops onto his back.

            I watch him, in his pajama bottoms and ratty old grey t-shirt. Then I smile. “You’re for it. You think it’s a good idea, only you hate that we agree about something.”

            He flips me off.

            “I’ll take that as a yes.”

           

“The train,” says Harry.

            “The train.”

            “You were an arsehole.”

            “Should you call an eleven year old an arsehole?”

            “If they’re acting one, and you were, then yeah, I don’t see a problem.”

            I’m tired of sitting, so I lay down on my side, propping up my head. “Tell me how you remember the train.”

            “The train or you on it?”

            “Either. Both. Whichever suits you.”

            Harry grumbles a moment, but I’ve read that book. I know the first time on the train is one of his favourite memories.

            “It was…amazing,” he says. “I’d never—been on anything as—fancy as that before.” He points at me. “Don’t even start.”

            “I wasn’t intending to.”

            “Everything about it—there were kids everywhere. Kids with their animals, and in robes—kids who were like me. And there’d never been anyone like me around before.” He watches me, assumedly waiting for the moment I launch into some mockery. I don’t intend to. “I’d already met the Weasleys on the platform. They told me how to get to 93/4. So I sat with Ron, and he was the first truly decent person my own age I’d spoken to.” Harry narrows his eyes at me. “Then you showed up.”

            With a crooked smile, I say, “Here we are. Draco Malfoy, the secondary nemesis, arrives for real in the narrative. Tell me how you remember it.”

            “I remember you being a rude bastard. Crabbe and Goyle next to you. Looked like you had bodyguards. Not surprising. You were so small you couldn’t have fought your own fights.”

            “I could have said the same to you. You looked like a malnourished orphan. Oh, wait—you _were_ a malnourished orphan.”

            Sucking a breath in through his nose, Harry says, “You made a crack about Ron’s family, same as you always did, and that’s when I knew you weren’t the kind of people I wanted to associate with. I let you know that, and you turned tail and left.”

            “That’s how you remember it.”

            “That’s how it happened.”

            Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I say, “Fine. Let me tell you how _I_ remember it.”

            “Here we go,” Harry mutters.

            “I wanted _desperately_ to be your friend.”

            That shuts him up. I suspected it might. It’s a damned good thing I’ve largely come to terms with my past, or this would be a terrible blow to my dignity.

            “I was raised in a family that revered the Dark Arts. Above that, they revered _power_. And you—a boy my exact age, had the power to defeat the greatest dark wizard history had ever known. I was so excited when I learned that you’d be coming to Hogwarts. People had wondered—all those years, you gone. Maybe you’d been sent overseas. Maybe you’d go to Ilvormorny. Hell, you could have ended up in one of those ridiculous blue uniforms at Beauxbatons. But Father came home and told us that you’d be going. He knew before almost anyone else—obviously.”

            “Christ, I always hated that about you. You always—fucking knew things before other people.”

            “Money will do that, Harry. So my father came home with the news, and he took me aside, and explained that I had a decision. One or the other, and it was very important. I could make a friend of you, or I had to avoid you _entirely_.”

            Frowning, Harry says, “How’s that?”

            “You defeated the Dark Lord, genius. Without raising a finger. Hell, before you could even speak. You could have been the devil incarnate. Plenty of people thought _you_ were set to be the greatest dark wizard that ever lived, if you could do that to Voldemort. My father had seen Voldemort’s abilities up close. If you could defeat _him_ —you might be the worst thing this world had ever seen.”

            Uncomfortable, Harry crosses his arms, and hunches his shoulders. Terrible posture on that one, same as always. “Well, I wasn’t, was I.”

            “There were certainly times I thought you were,” I mutter. “My father told me that I could either ingratiate myself to you, or I had to steer clear of you completely. Be on the side of power, or be on the side of survival. He wouldn’t tell me which to choose. He said it was up to me. But for years, he had instilled in me certain values. Might makes right. It wasn’t even a question. I’d be a friend to you. I knew all the people you would need to know, I knew the magic world, I knew its history—I’d been taught it for as long as I could remember. I could be your friend, and I’d be your guide. I would be on the side of power, as my father had before me, and his father, and his father. It was what I was meant for.”

            Sighing, I push myself to sit back up. I sit with straight shoulders, unlike some surly men who shall not be named. “I let myself get rather excited about it. People were always happy to be in with the Malfoys. I’d yet to meet someone who really treated me with disdain. I was quite certain—that you and I would be friends. And I was—rather desperate for a friend. The families closest to the Manor were the Crabbes and the Goyles. Those are the boys who were my closest companions from birth. And—“ I give my eyes a roll. “Not to impugn the dead, but Crabbe wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the lot, and Greg was never any better. I always felt—frustrated by them, I suppose. I was smart. People gave me a lot of shit, saying that I coasted by on my family’s name and their money, but my marks _were_ the best in my house. I never really felt like Crabbe and Goyle were the best that I could do. To have a real friend—one with power—that was just ideal, wasn’t it.

            “Then I find out that the mousy little boy I’d stood by at the robe shop was actually Harry Potter. You’d stood next to me, and I’d had no idea. You were rather unimpressive. I’d thought I’d know you on sight. That you’d be—I don’t know. More noticeable. Well, you certainly went out of your way to do that over the years, didn’t you.”

            “I did not,” Harry argues. “I don’t know how many times I have to say it to people, but I _never_ wanted the attention.”

            Unconvinced, I say, “Sure. Well, I’d missed my first chance, but I’d make it up on the train, wouldn’t I? Only—you’d already made your choice. Child of the first wizard mother you came across. Suppose I can’t blame you, since it’s so blindingly obvious.”

            Harry opens his mouth, and he’s so incensed that he can’t actually speak a moment. I watch him from under my brows, awaiting his response.

            “That—is completely inaccurate!”

            I shrug. “If you say so.”

            “How about, he was the first wizard my age who didn’t act like a complete troll.”

            “Latched on rather fast then, didn’t you. Almost indiscriminating.”

            Harry puts his hands up, forcing himself to take a deep breath. I can practically hear him trying to conjure Granger’s voice, telling him to calm down.

            “Fine,” he says tightly. “Fine. Whatever. However you want to interpret it, that’s your prerogative. Let’s just—get to the compartment. When you came into the compartment, how the hell do you square your behaviour there?”

            “Like I keep saying, I recognize that my behaviour was terrible, I’m just trying to give you context—“

            “Then give me context,” he says, and it almost sounds like a threat.

            I’m certainly not cowed. What can he do, besides pout at me?

            “I came in to introduce myself, to properly meet you, and you, of course, had already formed your opinion of me. But I didn’t know that. I spoke to you the way I’d been taught to speak—I had never been around people who were raised by muggles before. It didn’t really occur to me that you might communicate in a different way. That you might take it in a way other than intended. I really—honestly, Harry, I was only trying to be friends.”

            “With me,” he says sharply. “Didn’t make the effort with Ron, did you.”

            I blink at him a few times, then I say slowly, “Do you remember what Weasley did?”

            “I remember you making a crack at him for his family before he’d said a single word to you.”

            I can’t help but let out a soft chuckle. Looking back near two decades, seeing the miscommunication, the lack of understanding that led to an animosity that nearly killed us both.

            Dragging a hand over my face, I say, “Here’s what happened, if you’ll care to remember more than just what was said. And if you don’t believe me, go find a penseive and have a look at the memory. You’ll see that I’m right. I introduced myself. I said my name, and Ronald Weasley—laughed at my name.”

            Harry gazes at me, then lifts his shoulders. “That’s _it_?” he says incredulously.

            “If you’d bothered to learn a single thing over the last twenty years, Harry, you’d know that’s not _it_. It’s pureblood tradition that a mother picks their child’s name. It is very important. A child could have the most ridiculous name you’ve ever heard, and you don’t say a fucking thing about it, because the mother chose it. Weasley’s pureblood himself, he knew that. Him laughing at my name—it was basically the equivalent of saying, ‘Fuck your mother.’ Of course I went off on him. There’s only one thing more important than power, and that’s family, and he laughed—at my mother. Why do you think I went off on his so many times over the years? Because he fired the first shot.”

            In disbelief, Harry says, “He only _laughed_.”

            “I only said his family was poor. Which it was. He embarrassed me by laughing, and he disrespected my _mother_. I don’t give a damn if he’s the best friend of the chosen one, or—if anyone else had done it—hell, if Blaise Zabini had laughed at my name, I’d have spent the next few years taking a strip off him too. It’s a matter of pride, and loyalty. He took a crack at my mother, so I took a crack at his family. Fair is fair.” I have to roll my eyes again. “Only you—because you were raised by regulars, you had no idea what was going on, and apparently no one’s ever enlightened you, or you just never considered it, because it’s easier to think that I was simply born bad. So I held my hand out to you, and you—refused to shake it. You had me standing there, after that boy laughed at my name, in front of my friends, and you refused to shake my hand. And you _wonder_ why I hated you?” I shiver, thinking back to my eleven year old self. How I had gone to our compartment and not said a word, how the other boys had sat there in uncomfortable silence. “You embarrassed me so badly, and not only that, underneath there was this—disappointment. I’d hoped for something, and you were just terrible instead. You were every bad thing my parents could have warned me about. Half breed who thought he was better than everyone. And you’d publicly humiliated me.” I look at him and ask, “How easy do you think it would have been for an eleven year old to forgive that?”

            Harry does not exactly appear moved. “He only laughed,” he says quietly. “Because your name _is_ ridiculous.”

            I snort. Gesturing to myself, I say, “The dragon.” I gesture to him, and put as much smirk into my voice as I can. “Harry.”

            His eyes narrow.

            “I mean, they called you an homonym for a word that means hair-covered. Though given that mop—“

            “Don’t make fun of them.”

            “Then aren’t you being a bit of a hypocrite? Saying my name’s ridiculous?”

            “I don’t really care.”

            I have to rub my eyes. “Fine. If you want to be that way about it, I suppose I’ll just have to let things eat away at you.”

            “This is not going to eat away at me.”

            Dropping my hands, I smile. “Oh it will. Because I say it will.”

            “Who up and made you God?”

            I just smile, because I know it will irritate him. And I know that because I said it will—it’s going to just sit with him. Good. Not like I wanted this.

 

When I wake up, it’s dark and a thought hits me.

            “No,” I mutter.

            I’m lying here on Derrell’s couch, and I’m a few seconds removed from speaking to Harry Potter, and I’ve just had a thought.

            I believe that one of Dumbledore’s many failings was letting a child set on murder run rampant through his school. He never said anything. He just let me do what I wanted, didn’t try to save me, didn’t give a damn. Severus tried, but he was one person.

            And here I am, with a child who’s thinking of murder, and I’ve been asked to help, and I’ve said I’m busy because I work reception.

            “Fuck," I sigh. 


	9. Chapter 9

“What’s it like working at a tattoo shop?”

            I glance over at Evan while the man behind the counter passes me my change. I put a few coins in the tip jar, then turn to Evan.

            So I’ve caved, a little. Not entirely, mind you. I’m not working more nights at the center. I am, however, taking Evan out for at least an hour twice a week. It’s only the second week of July, so this is only our third time out, but it could certainly have gone worse.

            “I like it,” I say, as we walk out onto the street with our ice cream cones. I’ve chosen white chocolate macadamia nut, because I’m not a savage. He’s gone with mint chocolate chip, and it’s a rather alarming shade of green. The heat is bad enough that I’ve left my wand at home entirely because I refuse to wear boots in this weather. I’m in my only pair of shorts, and my rarely used green Chucks, and a white tank top.

            Evan, meanwhile, is in baggy jeans, a hoodie, and God knows how many layers underneath. He’s bright red, and there’s sweat around his hairline. Well, if he wants to die of heat stroke, that’s his choice.

            “I mean, it’s not glamorous,” I tell him. “There’s apparently all those shows on TV these days—it’s not that exciting. It’s not that dramatic.” I pause. “Well, it’s usually not that dramatic, but I have one co-worker who is having difficulty remembering to pull his head from his arse before coming to work. But I like the work. I run the desk, yes? So I do things like scheduling and ordering, and getting coffee and doing cleaning and things like that.”

            “Really?”

            I nod. “People always have that reaction.”

            He blushes a bit more. “Sorry.”

            “No, I’m not saying there’s anything you need to be sorry for. There’s just this…attitude, that I should want to do something—I don’t know—more useful? I hear all the time that I should be a teacher or a social worker or something like that, but to be dreadfully blunt with you, often times you boys break my heart, and I don’t know that I could do it on a full time basis. So here’s how my life has worked out: a third to you boys, a third to the shop, and a third just for me. I think that’s fair.” I shrug. “Certainly a hell of a lot healthier than most people.”

            “I, um…is it okay if I ask you something?”

            “Yes, but then I’ll be allowed to ask you a question. And it won’t be one you like.”

            Evan grimaces. After a few seconds thought, he nods. He swallows, and asks, “Why don’t you have a tattoo there?”

            I glance at the outline of the mark. “Well—when I was your age, I was a moron, as I’ve told you before, and I got a tattoo. Only it was a tattoo from a fascist organization.”

            “Jesus,” he says, and that might be the strongest reaction I’ve ever had from him, so I’m rather pleased.

            “Precisely. Well, I got it removed, and I thought about covering over where it was, but—that would be lying. I mean, I can’t work with children if I have the equivalent of a swastika on my arm, but to have tattooed over it would have been—rather a chickenshit move. That’s the phrase, yes? Didn’t I hear Richie say that the other day?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I said it right?”

            He smiles a touch, a shy little thing that actually touches his eyes. “Yeah.”

            “So I tattooed all around it, but never over it. Other people don’t know what it means, but I do. It’s a reminder of the terrible things I did. A reminder to never do them again.” I look at him, and say, “You understand?”

            Evan nods. “Yeah.”

            “My turn to ask a question.” He cringes, but he braces himself. I say, “How old were you when you first thought seriously of killing someone?”

            He looks down at the sidewalk, and I let him take his time. I have some ice cream. It’s quite good, after all. Over in Brooklyn these days, it’s all even stranger flavours than you’d get on Diagon Alley, and the prices have been hiked as well. Better to buy ice cream in the Bronx.

            “Fourteen,” Evan says quietly. Then he says, even softer, “How old were you?”

            “Your age,” I reply. “I was a few weeks before turning sixteen, so I guess a hair younger. But I planned on killing someone, and I didn’t care who else had to die in the process.” I lick a drop of ice cream off my hand, trying to sound as casual as I can. “Why did you want to kill people? Or was it a particular person?”

            “I don’t—“ He stops himself before he can say ‘I don’t know.’ He’s taken my no ‘I don’t know’ rule far more to heart than some of the other boys have. “I guess it was…a teacher.”

            “What did this teacher do?”

            “She…she never called on me. Like all year. She called on everybody to come up and do problems at the board, but she never called on me. Then one day, she starts saying, ‘Matthew. Matthew, come up to the board.’ I was just drawing my buildings, because I’d done all the work, and I knew she wasn’t going to call on me, because she never did. So I didn’t look up. And she just keeps saying, ‘Matthew. Matthew, are you listening to me?’ And people are starting to laugh. I didn’t pay attention, because people—people are just shitty. Then all of a sudden, she’s pulling my drawing away from me, and she’s standing right over me, and she’s saying, ‘If you’re in my class, you need to pay attention, Matthew. I told you to go up to the board, not doodle.’ Everybody was just….” His voice strains, and I hear anger in it, finally. I know this kid’s plenty angry, but this is the first time he’s demonstrated even an iota of it. “They were all laughing. But they weren’t laughing because she got my name wrong. They didn’t know my name. They were laughing because she—because she was embarrassing me, and they thought that was so—“

            He stops himself, and I prompt, “You can say it. Whatever you want to say.”

            Evan screws up his face, and says, “They thought it was so fucking _funny_ , that she did that to me. That I was so stupid, sitting there drawing when she was saying my name. I didn’t know what to do, so I just…sat there. She’s looking at me, and she’s saying, ‘Matthew, are you listening to me?’”

            For a moment, he seems so miserable that he’s unable to speak. “What did you do?”

            Evan murmurs, “I went up and did the problem on the board and then I sat down.”

            I sigh. “Well, that’s fucking awful.”

            He looks up at me with such relief. It makes me queasy. This boy—he’s just a boy. It’s fine. He hasn’t done anything, and maybe he never will. Just like the others.

            “So you thought about killing her?”

            Evan nods, and frowns at the ice cream that’s dripped onto his hand. Instead of licking it off, he takes his napkin and wipes it up. “I, um….” I don’t speak. If he wants to continue, he can. “Myself too,” he whispers.

            I can’t help it. I reach over, and give him a single pat on the back. “Been there too.”

            “For real?”

            “Yes. I’m glad you didn’t go through with it. Her or yourself.”

            A few seconds go by, and Evan says, “I’m not.”

            Deep breath, Draco.

            My phone starts to ring in my pocket. “I don’t mean to be rude, but as you can guess, when my phone actually rings, it tends to be an emergency.” I pull out the phone, and say, “Well, let’s see what trouble we can get Zion out of, shall we?”

           

About two hours later, I’m able to make it home. I pop the cap off a cream soda and go to open the window. Once it’s open, I swing a leg outside and sit, straddling the window sill and watching the outdoors.

            It wasn’t too terrible of an emergency with Zion. Nor was it an area in which I’ve any expertise: siblings. Zion himself is a good boy, and he’ll go far, but for some reason his sister just sets him off. He called in a panic because he was so angry at her he thought he might hurt her. It takes a lot for a boy that age to admit a thing like that, and to ask for help. Us would never do a thing like that, and his sister practically drives him to murder. She’s eleven, though—I remember what a little shit I could be at that age.

            Evan and I went for a walk with him, and listened to him vent for a good long while. That’s really all he needed. That, and to be reassured that he wasn’t a bad person.

            “You’re not a bad person,” I told him. I looked at Evan. “Right?”

            He said, “I’m an only child, I don’t really know about—“ I kicked his foot, and Evan cleared his throat. “No—you’re not a bad person.”

            Zion bought us all fizzy drinks, hence the bottle I have now, and apologized for inconveniencing us when he had finished. I told him, same as always, that it was never an inconvenience, then I walked Evan back to his apartment.

            He asked me, “Is it always like that?”

            “Not every day,” I answered. “More like every other day.”

            The sun is starting to go down, and I’m in a decent enough mood. Work was all right, because Freddy wasn’t in today. One of Jason’s regulars came in—Janelle. At this point, I think she’s almost covered all the way down to her ankles. I wonder if that’s what I’ll look like, by the time I’ve finished.

            It was like old times, actually. Chatting up Janelle, dodging out to get everyone coffees and picking up cigarettes for Rodrigo, having to explain to the usual punters that no, you can’t show the tattooist a picture on a cell phone. Jason and I stayed back a bit after we were closed, until I had to apparate to Port Morris when Evan got off work. Jason and I were able to just have a laugh, and not have that angry, frustrated thing lying between us like it usually does these days.

            Across the street, a small huddle of Satmar men walk down the sidewalk. Just looking at their heavy black suits makes me too warm. And the beards—if I don’t shave every day, not that I even have to, I feel itchy. At least none of them are in those great big furry hats they’ll sometimes wear. Just those wide brimmed ones the adult men all wear when they leave the house.

            I don’t know too much about them, to be honest. I’ve lived here eight years, but they’re not exactly open to outsiders, and the idea of organized religion of any kind strikes me as oppressive. Nor do I care for any group that divides the sexes. Any kind of division always worries me—somehow it feels like there’s a hierarchy, and I don’t like when people are thought of as lesser. I know where that leads, and it’s ugly.

            Not for me to judge. I know enough about them to know that their people are some of the most persecuted to ever walk this earth. Let them have their traditions, their ways. So long as they steer clear of me and don’t hiss, ‘Artisen!’ at me on the street, we’ll all be fine.

            One of the men at the back glances up, and his eyes catch on me. I gaze back, because why shouldn’t I? But his eyes—they linger.

            Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do it anyways. Lifting the bottle, I slowly lick the glass neck, catching condensation on my tongue, and hold his eyes the whole while.

            He trips, and one of the other men grabs him by the arm before he can fall. I’m snickering to myself as he shakes his head, murmuring something and walking with his head down, cheeks pink.

            Shouldn’t laugh. Not like I don’t know what it’s like.

            I have a sip of cream soda and I revel in my freedom for a moment.

            Wonder if Harry will show up tonight.

            He doesn’t, always. It’s been about two weeks since he gave in enough to have a decent night’s sleep. I don’t know about him, but it’s not like I feel taxed by it when we do have our conversations. I always wake up when he does, but after a minute or two, I’m able to fall back asleep. So that’s not an issue.

            The issue is still _him_.

            We’ve had—four talks in two weeks? We’ve managed to hash out the first year at Hogwarts. That was something I never needed to do, to be totally honest. I know the only way out of this bind is to be completely honest, so I have to—do that with him. Harry Potter. He of the unshakeable moral certainty and inflated ego. Despite all his demurrals, he’s fairly full of himself. Always has been. I don’t know why I expected that to change.

            I guess I thought he’d grow up. That he’d get over it. The way I did. I don’t like going over the old days, but I will. It doesn’t hurt, like it used to. I was angry for a great many years, and full of hate. For the world, and for myself. I’ve been able to forgive myself, for the most part. I think I might have done that because I knew no one else ever would.

            Maybe the encounter with Longbottom all those years back gave me unrealistic expectations. He’s always been a good sort. Even if I did my best to make his years at Hogwarts a living hell, until I was distracted by larger things. I suppose seeing that he had come a ways himself might have given me the impression that the rest had too. The Weasleys, the Lovegoods, the Parkinsons. Goyle. I wonder what ever happened to him. I’ve just always assumed that people got on with their lives.

            Not the chosen one, apparently. He’s dead set on being bitter about the war. Bitter about nearly anything. I’ve tried to ask about what he’s up to now, or to talk about my current life, but he just says, “Let’s get through the past and then we’ll worry about the present, shall we?”

            I’ve picked up a few pieces here and there. I know that my second cousin has had his first year at Hogwarts, and was placed in Ravenclaw, simply by virtue of lottery. Harry was none too pleased by that. I know that Harry does not live in the famous flat in London anymore, that it’s been made into a museum for the Order of the Phoenix. Of course it has. It’s all I can do not to raise my eyes to the heavens just thinking about it, so I have another sip of cream soda instead.

            I know he’s not seeing anyone. I think if he was, it would have mellowed him out some, or he would have mentioned that he was driving his girlfriend mad with his ridiculous sleep schedule and blamed me for that as well. I think he lives alone, and I think it may be away from people. He doesn’t act like someone who has many interactions with people, frankly. Maybe that’s part of his problem.

            He gets his hackles up if people’s adoration of him is mentioned, so I know that’s still an issue. It’s tempting to just go to Samatchin and pay a ludicrous amount for an imported copy of _The Daily Prophet_ just to see what they’re saying about him instead of waiting for him to spell it out, but I believe in letting a man tell a story at his own pace. They’re not like children. Children, you just have to be firm and you can get things out of them. Adults—they’re a little more tricky.

            I can’t say that I like Harry Potter. I wondered if I would. Sometimes I’d think about that, if I was lying in bed at night, past gnawing at my mind. If with how much I’ve changed, I’d see what it was about him that everyone always went absolutely ballistic over. Maybe I’d just been wrong about him, like I’d been so wrong about everything else. If I saw him as an adult, maybe I would finally understand.

            And I have to say that I don’t. He’s just as awful as he always was. Convinced he’s right about everything, headstrong, completely dependent on first impressions—ego the size of an air balloon. Getting him to admit that he’s wrong about a single thing is akin to pulling teeth.

            He’s been a few nights gone since going silent in a snit after we spoke about our detention in the forest, and my quite rightly pointing out how it showed what a terrible headmaster Dumbledore was.

            “The Forbidden Forest,” I argued.

            Harry shrugged stubbornly. “We were with Hagrid. We were fine.”

            Putting up my hands, I exclaimed, “We were eleven—in the Forbidden Forest—where Voldemort was eating fucking unicorns!” He didn’t have a response for that, so he gave me the silent treatment until he woke up.

            At the rate we’re going, and if I’m even right about this curse—empathy being the thing that cures it—it will take months.

            God, I hope it’s no more than months.

            Because I can talk about the past. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it. And being with the person who I hated the longest and hardest—and it turning out he’s still an utter moron—that’s not exactly a thrill.

            No matter. I’ve endured worse. I can—and will—outlast Harry Potter.

 

“Back again,” I smirk.

            “Cheerfully fuck yourself, Malfoy,” Harry says, walking over to sit down in front of me.

            Leaning forward, I squint at the bruise he’s tried to cover. “How’d you do that?”

            He takes a deep breath, then pushes his hair aside. His scar’s on one side of his forehead, and on the other is a purple, angry looking contusion. “I was so tired I tripped and fell down the stairs,” he admits.

            “For fuck’s sake, Potter—is being pissy about my existence really an excuse to put your health at risk?”

            “Hermione said the same thing,” Harry mutters. “Though not in those exact words.”

            “Lucky you didn’t crack your head open—“

            “Yes, well, Malfoy—“ He puts his hands on his knees, sitting about as straight as he’s able. “I had a thought.”

            It’s all I can do not to say, _at last_. Instead, I say evenly, “Yes?”

            “Hurt not to say, ‘there’s a first,’ didn’t it. But I was thinking, I’ve done my work on my side.”

            “How do you figure that?” I crow.

            “ _I’ve_ tried to figure a way out of this. You’re the one who seems intent on spending every night with me.”

            “Ugh. Trust me, if I wanted to spend every night with a man, I could find better.”

            “Have you not gone to see anyone? To see if this can be fixed?”

            “I’ve tried to find Mrs. E, but I’ve had one sighting in a month. Slippery old bat.”

            “You said there was a wandmaker. You said she could see a curse on you.”

            Shaking my head, I reply, “She didn’t say curse. She said it was a strange magic, but it was neutral. There wasn’t the time for much more than that.”

            “Have you gone back to see her about it?”

            A little reluctant, I say, “No.”

            “Why not?”

            “For one, I don’t rely on other people for help. I take care of my own problems, and I don’t try to _cheat_ my way out of them.”

            “Then what kind of Slytherin are you?”

            “Secondly,” I say over him, “she is not the kind of woman that you just pop in on and ask for a favour. It would be extremely—ill advised.”

            “Scared of the price?”

            “Yes. Absolutely. That and—I don’t like being around magics. I don’t want any closer to them than I have to be, so I’d rather we just fix this problem the way it’s supposed to be fixed. Straight forward, old fashioned hard work. It won’t kill you. I mean, it won’t kill you if you actually sleep like a sane person.”

            Harry sticks his hands into his hair and closes his eyes. He winces when his hand gets a bit too close to his bruise, but that’s his own fault. “Let me be clear. You could ask how to fix this, but you won’t. Because you don’t like witches and wizards.”

            “If Granger told you there wasn’t a way around it, I don’t know how you expect me to find a way to wriggle out. And of course I don’t like witches and wizards. Pompous lot of freaks, aren’t they.”

            That gets me a stare. I raise a shoulder, unrepentant.

            “So—if you’ll accept that we will be doing this without any shortcuts—where would you like to start today? Have we thrashed first year into submission yet?”

            It takes a minute, but he gives me a grim nod. “Second year.”

 

“Borgin and Burkes.”

            I inhale, filling my lungs all the way, then stretch. When I’m ready, I echo, “Borgin and Burkes.”

            “That’s the first time I saw your father,” Harry remarks, looking like there’s something sour in his mouth.

            “Hiding in the vanishing cabinet.”

            “That fucking cabinet.”

            “That’s the first time I ever laid eyes on it.”

            “I suppose it was interesting. In a way. Seeing where _you_ came from.” Harry rolls his eyes. “Of course the first time I saw your father he was trying to offload dark artifacts to try and get around Arthur and the Ministry.”

            “Well, yes. He didn’t want to be arrested.”

            “How’d that turn out for him?”

            “Badly. You can keep trying to hit me with the ‘your father’s in prison’ stick, but Harry—I already knew that.” I pull my legs up under myself, holding my calves. “So what was your first impression of my father?”

            “That he was an adult sized version of you, and therefore terrible.”

            Out of curiosity, I ask, “Do I look like him now?”

            Harry makes a face. “What?”

            “Do you think I look like him now? I don’t mean the difference in our style, because that’s obviously on opposite sides of the spectrum, but under all that. Does my face look like his face?”

            “Why are you asking me?”

            “Because the only person I talk to from the old days is my mother, and she says I do. But her perception of reality is a little—skewed. Your honest opinion.”

            Harry looks me in the eyes, and I’m a touch pleased to see that he frowns. “A bit,” he says.

            “But not identical.”

            He makes a non-committal noise. The question’s made him uncomfortable, and I’m not sure why. So Harry steers us back to the past, because I suppose that’s safer for him. He gets to look like a hero in the past, and I will always be one of the villains. “I rather liked how displeased he was at you.”

            “How do you mean?”

            “All that bragging you had done about your father all year. Then there you were, asking him to buy you something, exactly like I expected you would. And he just shut you down, didn’t he. Thanks to your terrible marks.”

            I take a moment. Then I let out a snort.

            “What?” Harry says cautiously. “Don’t tell me I misinterpreted that, because there’s no ruddy way I could.”

            “You have, but I don’t suppose you’d know any better.”

            “There’s no way I didn’t see what I saw. Your father, trying to sell dark magic objects, and treating you like the brat you were instead of that false father of the year image he put on around everyone else.”

            I try not to smile. “Potter—when you get it wrong—you get it just—completely wrong. Well—admittedly, not about the selling bit. You should have seen some of the things we had in that house. I still have nightmares occasionally. But no, my father wasn’t cross at me about my marks. My first year, my marks were quite good. Very good, in fact. Not best in my year, and he wasn’t pleased about that, because of course that honour went to a regular born. He was a little cross about that, and took a few snipes at me about it, but him saying it was about my marks in public really just covered what he was actually upset about.”

            “And what was that? God, do I even want to know what you did?”

            There’s not exactly a delicate way to put it. “The truth is, I was twelve, and—well, a week before that, one of the house elves showed him some pictures I’d been keeping under my bed.”

            He actually looks confused. I’m going to have to spell it out for him. “What kind of pictures?”

            I repeat slowly, “I was twelve. What kind of pictures do you think I had?”

            Harry gets it. “Oh!” He grimaces. “Godric’s name, there’s something I never needed to think about.” I shrug. I’ve no desire to know what his teenage masturbatory material was either. “And what was his problem with that? Is it something that purebloods just don’t do? Don’t tell me—they were muggle photos.”

            “Well, yes, they were muggle photos, but he was more upset that they were of men.” I wait a few seconds, then I reach out a hand and snap my fingers. “Harry? Can you hear me? Have you had a stroke or something? An absence seizure?”

            His jaw, which actually dropped, snaps back into place. He lifts a fist to his mouth and starts to cough. It begins to get worse, to tell the truth.

            I watch this with some measure of amusement. “I’d offer a lozenge, but I seem to be without. Are you all right?”

            Blushing rather badly, Harry says tightly, “Yes.”

            I shake my head, pretending to ignore his fit. “And you wonder why I stay away from you lot. Homophobia has always been utterly rampant in the magical world.”

            “No! I mean—I’m not—I’m just—“ He clears his throat again and I fix him with an unblinking gaze. Harry gathers himself, and says, “I don’t care that you’re—“

            He stalls there, and I say louder than I have to, “Gay.”

            “Right. I don’t care about that.”

            “Sure you don’t. You almost choked on your own tongue.”

            “No, I just—“ He says a bit helplessly, “I never knew that about you.”

            I’m about to speak, but all of a sudden, the walls ripple around us. For the barest of seconds, I swear I can see the walls of my room.

            I straighten. “Did you see that?”

            “See what?” Harry looks around, obviously eager for some distraction.

            “The walls moved. I’m sure of it. I could see my bedroom.” I look at him and grin crookedly. “For a second there, you actually saw me.”

            “I did no such thing,” he says, cross.

            “You did so. Christ, it only took a month for you to even consider I might be a human being. I told you, didn’t I? I told you this was the way out.”

            Stubborn as ever, Harry says, “I didn’t see anything.”

            “Too bad. I did. And now I know I’m right for sure.”

            He mutters, “That’s splendid. Exactly what the world needed was more Draco Malfoy convinced that he knows everything.”

            He can’t get on my nerves this time, though. I’ve scored a victory. It lasted only a second, but he saw me.

            Harry wraps his arms around himself and says, “Anyways—let’s discuss your father attacking Arthur Weasley at the bookstore.”

            I’m too pleased to point out that Weasley attacked my father. You have to take your victories where you find them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Passed a 1000 hits yesterday--thanks to everyone for reading so far. Extra special gold stars and confetti goes to the people who leave kudos and comments.


	10. Chapter 10

The day my father put Tom Riddle’s diary in with Ginny Weasley’s things and set into motion events that were meant to kill children, he came to see me.

            I was in my room. I loved my room. It was huge and decorated with my house colours, only I didn’t have to share space like I did at school. My bed was so huge that as a child I had needed a small ladder to climb onto it. My ceilings and walls were painted with pale dragons that had faded over the decades, but I never minded that they were old. They reminded me of my favourite storybook when I was little, _Dominic the Dragon._ They reminded me of my best day.

            When the knock came at the door, I was surprised. I had snapped at my mother the previous day, and so she wasn’t speaking to me. I was expected to go to her and apologize, but I had no intention of doing so. Even if I felt terrible.

            I felt terrible about _everything_.

            That day was the first day in a week that my father had even spoken to me. He had not said a word since he called me in front of him in the drawing room, and there were the pictures. I had not thought I could be any more embarrassed, and in the past year I had experienced more embarrassment than in all my previous years combined. They were just pictures out of an old magazine I had found at school. It was an _NME_ , actually. I’d torn out the pictures of some handsome men, and folded them into small little squares that I thought I’d hidden so well. But there they were, unfolded and laid out before him.

            All because of that fucking house elf. He hated my father, and he did everything he could to thwart him. Everyone wants to cheer the little bastard on, toast his memory—but I remember him as the thing that outed a twelve year old boy from sheer spite.

            My father had asked me why I had the pictures, and I could tell from his voice that he knew. I told him they were nothing, just things I had found. He didn’t believe me. He told me to get out of his sight, and what I heard in his voice—I had heard my father frustrated with me before. Disappointed even. But disgust—that was entirely new.

            He had taken me to Knockturn Alley with him, and I thought that maybe this was the start of repairing things. The way he spoke to me in front of the shopkeeper, though, it was obviously not the case. I kept a stiff upper lip.

            Watching him get into an actual physical fight with that muggle loving Arthur Weasley, though, was an utter joy. I hated his children something fierce, and I could see how much the chosen one adored the man. Then there was my father, who actually goaded that stupid man into throwing a punch at him. I had never seen my father get into a physical fight before, and I was astounded—and proud—to see how well he acquitted himself.

            When we left the store, we went around the corner, and Father stood there a moment, breathing heavily. I couldn’t help myself. I said, “That was _brilliant_.”

            He looked at me, and I remembered. He didn’t want me anymore. I was a freak.

            He apparated us home. I went to my room, and I stayed there, actually cracking open my new books. It had stung, badly, at the start of the summer when he said, “A _mudblood_ got higher marks than you?”

            Now there was a knock at my door, and it opened. Father looked in, and I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know what he wanted of me. Whatever it was, I’d gladly do it. Things had already gone so wrong—school wasn’t like how he had told me it would be. I’d let him down, the whole family down, by making an enemy of Harry Potter. People who shouldn’t be in charge—half breeds, mudbloods—were everywhere, and they had the power. Now this. This thing I knew was wrong and that I’d wished and wished I could change.

            Father stepped inside, closing the door after himself. He crossed the room, and sat down by the heavy black desk that I liked to read at. Swallowing, I closed my book, and waited for him to speak.

            He folded his hands in his lap, and he looked serious, but I couldn’t feel disdain radiating off him, which was a welcome change.

            “I’ve behaved badly,” he said, “and so have you. But because I was angry with you—it is no excuse for my behaviour. And so I am sorry.”

            I did not know what to say. I looked down at my book—Transfigurations—and I wanted so badly to be different for him. If he’d had another son, maybe that boy would have done what he was supposed to. _Been_ what he was supposed to.

            “The truth of it is, Draco—I was scared.”

            I looked at him, shocked. My father did not get scared. Next to my mother, he was the most level headed person in all of existence.

            He met my eyes. I could see the apology there. I knew when my father did not mean an apology, and when he did, and this time it was meant.

            “We live—in perilous times. Things are not as they should be. People have tried to take our place from us. They’ve tried to take what is rightfully ours, Draco, and for centuries. I’ve told you this, many times before, and I want to make sure that you understand.”

            “I do,” I said, unable to curb the desperation from my voice.

            Father nodded. “Good. That’s good. We are meant to rule, son. It should be an inevitability, but people are trying to stand in our way. They’re trying to stop us, to put—traitors in our place. These people who revere creatures who are little more than cattle. They look like us, but they’re not us. That’s one of the most dangerous things about muggles. They look like us, and there are fools who think that they should be placed on the same level as us. But would you consider a dog your equal? A house elf?”

            “No, Father.”

            “Of course not. There was a time, when you were very small, that we nearly won this fight. And the time is coming when we will have to fight again. That is not posturing, that is a promise. Things are happening—things have been set in motion. If we want what is ours, we cannot simply wait for it to come to us. We must take it. And that—requires sacrifice.”

            He took a deep breath, and said deliberately, “Every one of us must sacrifice a piece of themselves for the greater good. It’s an imperative, Draco. These people will seize upon any weakness. They would use that weakness to bury us.”         

            I was the weakness. I was the thing that kept us from glory. It was all I could do not to shrivel. But this man had taught me to keep my shoulders straight, and so I did.

            “What if one of the boys at school had come across those pictures?”

            Shuddering, I said, “Father—“

            He lifted a hand, and I lowered my head, miserable. “It is—not unheard of, to have certain curiosities at your age. To be curious about muggles, and—other things.” I wanted to die, then and there. I didn’t want to talk about this with him. I didn’t want him to _know_ this about me. I didn’t want anyone to know. “But the slightest whiff of this, and people would not forget it. They would bring it up, again and again, but you know where they would do it? Where it causes the most danger. Behind our backs. It would not matter that you are the age you are. People have long memories. I know that better than any, and it is a piece of wisdom I have tried to impart to you. We will not give them that ammunition. Will we.”

            It was not spoken as a question. I shook my head. “No, Father.”

            I wished he would not look at me as he spoke. I almost wished the disgust would return to his voice. At the moment, I could not bear the love there. “No more pictures. No thinking about—other boys. It is simply not allowed. We must make sacrifices in pursuit of our goals. And perhaps this is nothing. Perhaps it is merely a childhood curiosity and nothing more. But if it is not—this _will_ be the sacrifice you make. You are my heir—my first born and only son. You will grow, and when it is time, you will marry, and you will have children of your own. You are the only one who can carry on our name. You will. It is not a request, or even a question. It is what you were meant for. Do you understand?”

            “Yes.”

            “I understand that this might be a thing you hate me for—“

            I shook my head violently. “No—it’s my fault, I’m the one who—“

            Father reached over, laying his hand on the desk before me. He gave his head a single shake. “No hysterics. I need only know that you understand what is needed of you. Promise me—no more of this. You will do what is expected of you. Promise me, Draco. For me. For your mother.”

            Nodding my head, I said quietly, “I promise.”

            With a small smile, Father nodded back. “Good. So we will not discuss this again. Ever.”

            Relieved, and dying as well, I said, “Yes sir.”

            Father sat back, reaching into his robe. “I know—I haven’t been very kind this week. I am sorry. You know it is merely from worry for you. You are the most important thing in our world. Always.” He pulled out a box. “I brought you something. To apologize.”

            I smiled a little. I always liked presents. My mother and father always gave the best presents. Undoing the grey bow, I lifted the top off the black box.

            My mouth spread in a wide grin. Laying on some tissue was a waxy, severed hand. It was the hand of glory I had admired so much in the shop.

            “Do you like it?”

            “Yes—thank you, Father.” I almost got up to hug him, but stopped myself at the last moment. I was not a little boy anymore. And given what we had just discussed—perhaps it was better that I not display any kind of affection. Not physically.

            I saw him smile a little more, and knew I had made the right decision. Father put his elbow on the desk and said, “Now—I had a thought.” He arched a brow. “How would you like to play for the house team this year?”

            My heart leapt. I was still small, but I wanted to play Quidditch so badly. I loved it, I loved flying, I was good at flying, and when we played just at the Manor, I was always Seeker, and I was good at that too. But at school—only that wretched Potter was allowed to play at so young an age.

            “Would they let me?” I asked, a bit breathless.

            Father snorted, and smirked at me. “Oh, I think we can take care of that, don’t you?”

            I smiled back, so grateful that he loved me. That he took care of me as well as he did.

            I would make him proud. I promised myself. No matter what, I would make him proud.

 

“First things,” Harry says, looking dreadfully determined.

            “That look on your face is new. Very well, colour me curious.”

            He takes a deep breath, hands rested on his knees. He looks better than he did yesterday. Unless I’m mistaken, I think he might have actually combed his hair before going to bed. Not that it’s helped much, but still.

            Harry says, “I want to be clear that—you being gay has nothing to do with my opinion of you. You’re a terrible person, make no mistake, and I think that if I have to empathize with you, we’ll be here until we’re old and grey. But just because I was surprised yesterday, that doesn’t mean I think any less of you for that. I just don’t think much of you for everything else.”

            My mouth curves up in a crooked smile. “Isn’t that precious.”

            “Oh, fuck off,” he says, and drops his uncommonly straight posture.

            “That’s very nice, Harry. ‘I hate you, but it doesn’t have anything to do with you being _queer_. God forbid anyone think I have backward opinions about minorities.’ Next you’ll tell me that some of your best friends are gay.” I raise a brow. “Do you even have friends beyond Weasley and Granger?”

            “I do.”

            “Tell me about them.” He opens his mouth, and I say, “I’m not being facetious. Tell me about your other friends. I’m bloody sick of talking about myself.”

            “Aren’t I supposed to be learning about you—“

            “Oh, first you’re sick of it, and now you want to hear more. This is ridiculous. New rule. We spend at least five minutes talking about you. _Now_. What your life is like. What’s happening with—“ I wave at him. “All this.”

            He glances down at himself. “What do you mean, this—“

            “Tell me about your friends.”

            Harry sighs. “You already know about them.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “You’ve read the book. On multiple occasions, which still makes me a bit ill. Ron and Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Neville. All the Weasleys. I’ll see Dean and Finnegan if I’m in the area.”

            I wait. Then I say, “That’s it.”

            “That’s more than plenty have.”

            “Your friends are all the same people from school.”

            “At least I can trust them,” Harry says.

            “That is supremely unhealthy.”

            “Yes, well, you try making friends who don’t look at you like you walk on water when you’ve lived my life. People don’t—want to be friends. They want to—“ He shivers in revulsion. “Experience me.”

            I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I really try. I fail. “Experience…you.”

            “For fuck’s sake, Malfoy, I don’t know how to explain it to you—“

            “You said everyone wants a piece, yes? So people don’t see you as just a person. They see Harry Potter, Chosen One, and never get any further than that. I think what you mean to say is they want to bask in your glory.”

            Harry responds grimly, “Only if I meant to vomit in my mouth.”

            “Where are you living?”

            “Where are _you_ living?”

            “I mean, are you still in the magic world? I’m living with regulars. Why not go out and make muggle friends?”

            “Because they don’t understand.”

            Exasperated, I say, “Exactly! You don’t want to be worshipped, find people who don’t know that you’re the second coming of Godric Gryffindor.”

            Harry looks like he wants to argue with me. But then he bursts out, “I live in the middle of nowhere, all right?”

            “Beg pardon?”

            “I’ve a cottage, in the Chiltern Hills. I don’t live near wizards or witches, I don’t live near muggles, I don’t live near anyone.”

            I stare at him, then say, “And how is that working for you?”

            Leaning back, Harry mutters, “You’re hilarious.”

            “No, that was a serious question. That bad, is it?”

            He wants to argue. He does. It’s his default setting, after all. Only he says, “Yeah.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            That sets him off. “God no,” Harry groans. “The last thing I want—literally the last thing I want—is you feeling sorry for me. I’d rather have Voldemort come back. I’d rather have double Potions every day with Snape until the universe died.”

            “Well, now you’re just choosing things that aren’t that bad. You defeated the Dark Lord once, you’d obviously do it again. And you know that Severus wasn’t that bad.”

            Harry looks at me, and for a moment he drops the angry young man routine. “No. He wasn’t.”

            “There we are. We agree upon something.”

            “Ugh.”

 

The next night, once he’s flagellated me enough for when the Chamber of Secrets opened—“Your murdering lunatic father”—and my using a racial epithet in front of the whole school, we manage to get to the duel, and I’m grateful for it. I can do this—I’m a Malfoy, and made of strong stuff. I’m also Draco Malloy, and he’s made of even stronger material.

            But Christ, being made to go over and explain every single mistake you made as a _twelve year old_ —it can be exhausting.

            He’s all worked up, hair ruffled from repeatedly sticking his hands in it. I’m a bit pink cheeked myself, wondering if I wished enough, I could make myself stop doing that in this dream state. Astral projection plane. Whatever the fuck it is.

            “The duel,” Harry says.

            “Yes,” I say with relief.

            He bites into his lower lip a moment, and all of a sudden he grins. When he does, and like that, the bastard’s quite handsome. Pity he’s so set on being miserable about life. “Lockhart and Snape,” Harry snickers.

            I grin back. “That was a thing of beauty.”

            “I mean—terrible about Lockhart being in St. Mungo’s the past seventeen years,” Harry says, not looking all that remorseful.

            “Oh, yes, the man who would have let several children die to bolster his reputation. You know how I feel about _that_ kind of thing.” Before he can go all dark around the eyes again, I say, “But Lockhart—I’d say he certainly ranked in the top five worst teachers I had at Hogwarts. Out of curiosity, Harry—“

            “God, I wish you’d stop using my name—“

            “With your skewed perspective of how adults should behave with their charges, who tops your list of all time worst Hogwarts teachers?”

            He snorts, and lifts his right hand. I can see a faint scar along the back that almost looks like words. “Umbridge. You?”

            Without hesitating, I say, “Hagrid.”

            Harry shuts down completely. “You can get _fucked_ , Malfoy.”

            “Oh, for God’s sake, you’re not still sticking up for him.”

            “I knew this was all an act. Still a bigot after all these years.”

            “Bigoted about what?” I reply, confused.

            “Come on. You had it out for Hagrid from the beginning, because he didn’t look like everyone else. You probably had him figured for half giant from the start.”

            “No,” I say with a straight face, “I thought he suffered from a rare glandular disorder.” I cross my arms. “You—are going to sit there and defend _Hagrid_ as a good teacher.”

            Jaw set, looking like the definition of stubborn, Harry says, “Too right I will.”

            Nothing for it. I stand up, and start stretching.

            “What are you doing?”

            Pulling one arm across my body, I say, “You’re going to make this difficult. I’m limbering up.” I pull the other arm across, then reach down to touch my toes.

            “You’re not convincing me of anything. Hagrid’s grand. Always has been.”

            “He’s always been off his nut,” I mutter. I sit back down, then lean all the way forward, reaching across the floor. I know it’s all just in my head, but it makes me feel better. Once I’m ready, I sit up straight. “Well.”

            He doesn’t shake when I return to the Forbidden Forest and the dead goddamn unicorns. Not a quiver when I remind him that the great oaf had a dragon in his shed. He merely shrugs and says, “I’ve had worse,” when I bring up his adventure with the spiders (“You had to be rescued by a _car_ ,” I remind him, to no avail). When we get to Hagrid’s first lesson, Harry says, “ _You’re_ the one who ruined it for him!”

            Both hands up, I say slowly, “Hippogriffs. Around a bunch…of thirteen year olds. What the fuck did he think was going to happen? He didn’t think, because he never thought. I think he was _incapable_ —“

            “He gave you clear instructions on how to behave with them—“

            “I—was thirteen! What fucking thirteen year old listens to their teacher? You think it was appropriate for him to bring those things around us all? After he’d had us buy that _book_ —“ He frowns, and I wrap my arms around myself, nodding to him. “Were you able to get it open before that lesson? Chosen one?”

            “Don’t call me that—“

            “Everyone went into that lesson already scared—I had to wrap my book up with a rope to keep it from taking off my fingers—you should have _seen_ what it did to my mother’s dog.” I pause. “I never did like that dog. Regardless! Everyone was scared, and I’m the one who spoke up first and asked what the hell we were even supposed to do with the book. And you think I was trying to ruin his lesson? I saw Hippogriffs, and I thought, is he mad? He was, but you lot in Gryffindor, oh, you thought it was splendid. Never using your heads. Not, this thing, which is much larger than me, could kill me. No. For you lot, it was always, ooh, everyone will see how bloody cool I am when I’ve made friends with it. Never thinking.” I shake my head. “I was scared of the thing. I had to pretend like I didn’t care, because I was thirteen and surrounded by my mates. But I paid attention, and I got that monster to bow to me, didn’t I? Of course, that’s when I shot off my mouth. Shouldn’t have done it, but I did. Because I was thirteen, and stupid. It could have killed me. Just because it was me doesn’t make it right. If it had been Longbottom, would you be sitting there saying that it was all well and good for Hagrid to bring Hippogriffs to lessons with thirteen year olds?”

            “Neville had more sense than—“

            “He most certainly did _not_. I was a snotty little show off, and he was just hopeless. It’s luck that I was hit first. It could have just as easily been one of your Gryffindor friends.” I sigh. “Listen—I understand that Hagrid means a great deal to you. He rescued you from that terrible family and all. But just because you like a person does not mean they’re a good teacher.”

             “He was just fine as a teacher.”

            “That so? Then tell me about your NEWT lessons with him.”

            The look of sheer loathing on his face is familiar. I’ve known it almost as long as I’ve known him.

 

“The duel.”

            “Yes,” I sigh.

            Harry looks positively bedraggled by this point. I made him relive seven years of Hagrid’s greatest hits, and by the end he admitted that Hagrid has gone back to simply being groundskeeper. Another score for McGonagall.

            “Snape helped you.”

            “Of course he did.”

            “He told you to use _Serpensortia_.”

            “He’d taught it to me.”

            “When?”

            “He was my head of house, and a family friend. I can’t remember when, just one of those times that he was there.” I can see that he doesn’t believe me, and I shrug. “You’re acting again like magic hasn’t been an intrinsic part of my life. Do you remember the day you learned to tie your shoes? The best way to move your robe off your arm as you performed a spell? Not everything is just at my command.”

            “You seem to remember the bits that make you look good.”

            “As do you. That’s how people work.”

            Harry narrows his eyes at me. Oh, here it comes. He telegraphs what he’s going to do a million miles away. I can tell he thinks he’s going to hurt me. He really hasn’t yet, but let him try. “I know that Severus Snape was a good man. But you know what really pleases me to think of?”

            I wait a few seconds. “Oh, did you want me to ask?”

            “All that fawning you did over him. Probably turned his stomach. He pretended with you, just like he did everyone else.”

            After a moment, I have to raise a brow. “That,” I say, unable to complete camouflage my disgust, “is pathetic.”            

            Harry shrugs, saying, “Just a thought.”

            “I mean—you’ve tried very hard to take a dig at me as we’ve gone through this, but that one—I should think you’d be ashamed to even suggest it. Fuck, you really are a useless twat sometimes.” I have to rub my fingers into my eye a moment to try and convince myself not to attempt walking through the walls.

            “I beg your pardon.”

            “My patience is not inexhaustible. You come here night after night, determined to make me be abjectly sorry for every act I committed as a child. That in and of itself is an impossible demand, but I’ve tried to fulfill it, because I’ve my fair share of guilt over the old days. But I’ve done my best here to try and make you see things from my point of view and you—sometimes, Harry Potter, you are just unspeakably cruel.”

            He points to his chest. “I’m cruel. Between the two of us. Which of us—“

            “Yes, Harry—yes. I did all those things. I did them, and sometimes I believed they were right and sometimes I believed they were wrong and sometimes I cared and sometimes I didn’t and I did them all no matter how I felt about it. We’re going to get nowhere, though, if you expect me to prostrate myself before you with grief, begging for forgiveness, taking any lashing you dole out. I’m still a Malfoy. I’ve my limits.”

            Smug, Harry says, “You think I’m right, don’t you.”

            “I really don’t.”

            “Can’t prove it, can you.”

            “Don’t.”

            “Don’t what?”

            “Don’t push me. Don’t make me be cruel just because you’ve turned out…wrong.”

            His eyes flash, and Harry says, “It wasn’t just all those years at Hogwarts, you realize. He had to pretend to be your father’s friend. All those years before school—every happy memory—all that sucking up you did—all for a man who could never fucking stand you.”

            Enough.

            Gazing at him, I say, “Do you want to know what Severus Snape told me about you, the last time we ever spoke?”

            “I don’t care—“

            “He said that if you’d any more of your mother to you save your eyes, he might have hated you a little less.”

            I don’t feel good saying it. I don’t feel proud of myself, or even justified. I feel tired. This fight is too old, and I don’t want to throw punches anymore. But I also don’t want to be hit.

            Harry says, “You’re lying.”

            “If it comforts you to think that,” I say quietly.

            “He never talked to anyone about my mother. Not even Dumbledore knew how deep….” Harry looks at me, and shakes his head. “No. You’re lying.”

            “Not even a little,” I murmur. “Not even at all.”

            I lay down. I curl up, and put my hands beneath my head.

            “What are you doing?”

            “I’m closing my eyes,” I say, and I do. “And I’m not speaking to you again until the next time we see one another again. I’m sick of being forced to live in my past. It’s an ugly place to be.”

            I keep my eyes shut, and I ignore every word out of his mouth.


	11. Chapter 11

I hid outside the door, watching the man on the other side. He was clad all in black, as we so often were, but his hair was also black. Long, and a bit greasy. I wondered when he had last bathed. Mother made sure my hair was clean every day.

            _Grownups don’t have mothers to do that for them_.

            I watched through the crack, as the man’s fingertips escaped the very end of his robe. His long fingernails brushed along the words of an open book.

            When he spoke, I almost ran, but his words trapped me in place. “Young man,” he said, voice slipping around me, pulling me forward. “It is impolite to hover.”

            The door to the library opened, seemingly on its own. I hadn’t seen him use his wand. I was a little scared a moment, but curiosity carried me forward. Hands behind my back, I walked into the library.

            When he turned, I looked up a far ways to meet his eyes. I was only six, and we had been away some months. I could remember the man with the sallow skin and hooked nose, but I had never been alone in a room with him.

            His lips pursed together, and he said, “Is there a reason you are following me, Malfoy?”

            Instinct and training took over. “My father says you’re the best teacher at Hogwarts, sir. I wanted to know if that’s true.”

            He gazed at me a moment, with his impenetrable dark eyes. Then he smiled at me for the first time. I could remember him coming to the house for as long as I had memories, but it was the first that he had ever smiled at me like that.

            “It would appear, young Malfoy, that you’ve your father’s gift for flattery. If you are lucky, it shall carry you far. If not—“ He put a hand before my eyes, and brought index and middle finger abruptly together. “You shall find that silver tongue cut _off_.”

            I swallowed, and he smiled wider at that.

            He took a seat on the chaise, robes swirling around him, and nodded beside him. I was offended for a moment—this was my home, who was he to tell me to sit—but I knew enough that I stayed quiet, and climbed onto the cushions. My feet dangled freely above the ground.

            “How old are you now, Malfoy?”

            “Six, sir.”

            “So you will not be my student for another five years.”

            “But I will though? You’ll be my teacher?”

            “I will be one of your teachers. Provided that you receive an invitation to Hogwarts.”

            I blushed, and said, “I can do magic.”

            He tilted his head. “Can you?”

            I realized my mistake, and back pedaled. “I’m not supposed to.”

            “Then perhaps it would have been best to remain silent.” I grimaced, and wondered how upset my father would be if I simply ran from the room. More so than when he found out I’d been spying on his guest. “However. Seeing as I will be one of your instructors…would you like to demonstrate something for me?”

            It was all I could do to keep still. “May I, sir?”

            He nodded me on.

            I put my hands out. I had been practicing, in secret, after I upset Mother so badly by setting my room on fire. Gazing into the space between my hands, I pictured a little light.

            Then I _focused_.

            Sometimes it took minutes for anything to happen. I worried that maybe he would laugh at me, but I knew that I had to pay strict attention or nothing would happen at all. I stared and thought at the space until I was trembling, and he said nothing. I quivered, and thought over and over— _light_.

            A little flame appeared in the air between my hands. I grinned, feeling the sweat on my forehead. There was a terrible pressure between my hands as the light struggled to get loose. I knew that if it did, it would be apt to explode one of the lamps or bookshelves, and Mother would not speak to me for days.

            So with as much determination went into creating it, I willed it to disappear again. It took near to two minutes, but it became smaller, smaller, until it was a speck, and then it was gone.

            When I dropped my hands, I was wet with sweat, but it was the best I had ever done, and in front of an adult no less. I looked to the man in black to see if he understood my accomplishment.

            There was the barest of smiles on his face, but his black eyes were warm. “That,” he said, “showed extraordinary control for a boy your age. Some of the best I have ever seen. I must say—it is a pity you will not join us for another five years.”

            I beamed, trying not to feel faint. “Thank you, sir.”

            He reached into his robe, and held out a white handkerchief to me. “I would advise you to always carry one of these upon your person.” I wiped my face off with it, but then I did not know what to do once I was done. He simply plucked it from my hand, folding it back up, and put it away. “I’m surrounded by pubescent imbeciles for most of my days, young Malfoy. A sweat stained kerchief is not the end of the universe.” He looked at me again, and said, “That was quite good.”

            “Would you show me something, sir?” He raised his brows, and I said, “Father says you’re one of the best wizards he’s ever seen.”

            He gave me a glance that told me he was onto me, but he drew his wand nonetheless. “Something you’ve never seen before,” he ruminated. Then he let out a soft snort. “I doubt you’ve seen this in these walls. Can you keep a secret?” I nodded, solemn as anything. He lifted his arm and cried out, “ _Expecto patronum_!”

            A blueish silver creature erupted from the end of his wand, and I pulled back in surprise. A moment later, though, I was pushing forward to watch as the doe cavorted about the room. I clapped my hands, delighted. She was absolutely beautiful.

            She cantered back to us, almost nosing at my knees. I reached out, but my hands went through, and she disappeared.

            Worried, I said, “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to—“   

            He was putting away his wand. “No apologies necessary. Best she not be out too long in these rooms.” He looked at me. “Not a word to anyone, and I’ll tell no one about your little trick. Are we agreed?”

            I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

            And I held my hand out to him.

            He looked at him a moment, then smiled indulgently. He took my hand, and shook it. “We have an accord. And from now on, you may call me Professor Snape.”

            I smiled. “Yes, Professor Snape. You can call me Draco. I mean—if it is proper, sir.”

            Snape let me go, and said, “You will go far. Draco.”  

 

I shouldn’t have told Harry what Severus said about him and his mother.

            I shouldn’t have. It was petty, and below me, and it is not the kind of person I am or mean to be.

            But _Christ_ does that man get under my skin.

            It’s a month and a half, and the only indication I’ve had that he has the smallest sliver of compassion for me was a momentary ripple of the walls. If he was a child, I’d expect this kind of behavior, but from an adult—it’s galling and unattractive. I don’t know what happened to make him this way, and I don’t care. I just want him to stop making me feel so bad for things that I can’t change.

            No. No, I’m just tired. I’ve already had the one cup of coffee at home, but I’m standing here waiting at Transcend because I got past my front door and realized that the one cup would not sustain me. So I’ve ordered a triple shot latte, with hazelnut, all because of fucking Harry Potter and his fucking ego and his fucking need to make me feel as _small_ as possible.

            _It’s not only his fault. If you hadn’t done those things_ —

            None of that. I was a child, for God’s sake. I can take responsibility, I can admit that I was that person—once—but I am not that person anymore. I don’t want to spend a lifetime trying to justify myself to a person who will never listen.

            I didn’t fall back asleep after I woke, so I’ve been up since two. My eyes ache and I’m going to be a grumpy bastard today. No avoiding it.

            Another customer elbows me, and I look up. The handsome barista is looking at me expectantly. He must have called out my drink a few times.

            Shaking my head, I say, “I’m sorry, I am desperately uncaffeinated at the moment.” I pick up my cup, raising it to him. “Cheers.”

            He smiles, and I wonder a moment. I wonder what it would be like to ask him out. Just ask him out, go on a date, and not be thinking to myself the whole while that I’d have to avoid him once I fucked him. Go on a date, and have the possibility of more afterwards.

            I slip away through the crowd without smiling back.

            I have a few sips before I’ve even reached the door, because I need to be in the right frame of mind by the time I get to work. Otherwise this could be the day that I finally break my knuckles open on Freddy’s teeth.

            Pausing before I open the door, not wanting to be run into, I push it open, and step out into the blindingly warm day. Ugh. Nonetheless, I’m wearing my boots because I have the feeling I might need my wand to survive the day. At least I don’t have the boys or Evan tonight. I can simply go home.

            I find myself, for the first time, thinking of having a nap when I get home, so that I can stay awake until two or three in the morning, just to avoid that green eyed menace. Shaking the thought off with revulsion, I start walking. _I_ will not be the one who breaks. I’ve reckoned with my past. I can stand up to one immature man’s ridiculous—

            Son of a bitch.

            Sitting on the bus bench twenty feet away, like there’s nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary, is Mrs. E. She’s just sitting there. Smiling that loony smile, looking about at the day without even noticing me.

            I look to see if there’s a bus coming. There’s not. She’s not making a getaway this time.

            Thank _fuck_ I brought my wand. I’ll hex her if she tries to run, I swear I will.

            I somehow manage to sneak and storm over to her, and even I don’t know how I’ve done the two at the same time. But I’m standing over her, scowling and doing my best not to crush my coffee cup in my hand.

            She looks up at me, and smiles as if nothing’s wrong. “Where have you been?” she says.

            Something in my jaw is twitching. Sitting down, I say, “Don’t even start with me, you _witch_. Where in hell have you been?”

            Raising her shoulders, Mrs. E imperiously brushes a bit of head scarf away from her face. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m always here.”

            Okay. Okay, I am not in the mood to play games. I’m not having this. I put my coffee down on the ground so that I don’t burn myself (or throw it at her), and turn to her completely.

            “Listen—you know why I’m here.”

            “Why’s that?” she says innocently.

            “Don’t play dumb with me, old woman. You and your ‘make a wish.’”

            I want to smack the smile off her face. I do. “Did it come true?”

            “Did it—“ My voice is raising, and we’re outside a coffee shop in Williamsburg. People will stare. Lowering my voice, I lean forward and hiss, “You know it bloody worked. It worked in spades. I need you to reverse it.”

            She looks across the street, clear eyed and unaffected. “Why would I do a thing like that?”

            “Because something went terribly amiss, and I’m stuck in a—listen. I am stuck, every night, sharing the same dream with the most infuriating man alive, all thanks to you. I don’t know what you are, if you’re a witch or some other manner of magical creature, but you need to reverse it.”

            “If I do that,” Mrs. E says, “you’ll never learn.”

            “Learn what?” I yelp.

            “You already know.”

            I breathe sharply through my nose, my long fingers making fists. “Mrs. E,” I say, calmly as I’m able. “I understand that perhaps you thought you were helping me. That is most appreciated. But your little bit of magic has also roped in another person, who is quite miserable about the situation. Perhaps even more so than I. It’s not fair to him to let this continue. So please—trust me, I have suffered plenty over the last month, and so has he. I am asking you, with all due respect—please. Please reverse the spell.”

            I wait.

            She shakes her head. “No.” I growl, tossing my head back. God _damn_ it. “Wishes come infrequently. You should be grateful yours was fulfilled.”

            “I didn’t mean to make it, I was rather plastered—“ I put up my hand. “No. You know what? I’ve tried to be nice about this. I waited to speak to you, while you hid, because I thought that we could work this out, but I forgot how absolutely raving magics can be.” I reach down, picking up my coffee cup. “I held off on reporting you to the authorities because I thought we could work this out like adults, but I’m going to Samatchin this second to report you to the Curse Department. Last I checked, it was three years in prison for use of magic on an unwilling individual, nonviolent category, and considering that this little trick of yours extended to another person, that could be a full six years. Wherever you’ve been hiding, let’s see how long it takes New York’s finest Aurors to track you down and put you where you belong.” I’m making this up. I actually have no idea what the sentencing guidelines are, but hopefully she buys it. I stand up, and say, “Enjoy prison, you old bat—“

            “Sit down,” she says.

            I don’t. I raise my eyebrows. “Why should I?”

            Mrs. E frowns for the first time I’ve ever seen. “Ungrateful boy,” she mutters. “I give you what you wish for, and you threaten to put _me_ in prison.”

            I sit down carefully on the bench. I reach down, pulling my wand from my boot, and sit it inconspicuously by my thigh, keeping hold of it. “No funny business, old woman, or I’ll hex you into next year. Lift the spell, and we’ll have no more business with one another.”

            She looks at me like a disappointed basset hound. “Are you really sure? Wishes are so rare—“

            Lifting my wand an inch, I say, “So help me God—“

            Waving ring-covered hands, Mrs. E says, “Fine, fine.” She raises her hands in the air, and closes her eyes.

            I wait.

            She starts humming. The humming goes on for about ten seconds straight. She begins to sway from side to side a little.

            Mrs. E stops abruptly, raising her face towards the sky.

            “Oh Goddess, I your humble servant call upon you to recall the sacred magics placed upon this man. Hecate, hear me. I release my words, and praise you in your infinite wisdom, oh great goddess of the earth. Gaia, mother, hear me. Work through me and take back your gifts from this man. In your name, I do this deed, mother goddess. So mote it be.”

            She lowers her hands, and opens her eyes.

            “There,” Mrs. E says. “All done.”

            My jaw has fallen open.

            “Jesus _Christ_!” I exclaim. I’m going bright red, I can feel it, because of course I am!

            Confused, Mrs. E says, “What?”

            “You—are not magic at all! You’re just a crazy person!”

            I shove my wand back into my boot. Thank God I only took it out around her, this absolute nutter who thinks that magic is real, but probably, like, magyk with a Y and K. This is unbelievable! Unbelievable!

            “I am a witch!” Mrs. E protests. “The magic of the universe flows through me—“

            Pushing myself to my feet, I snap at her, “You are an utter fraud who needs to seek psychiatric help. Or maybe the mother goddess can help you with that too, if she’s not too busy infusing your crystals with divine energy. I can’t believe I—“ I put a hand to my face. “Fuck!”

            She’s not the one. She didn’t do this.

            Storming away, I yell from sheer frustration, “Fuck!”

 

“Hey, Draco!”

            I lift my head from where it’s been the last five minutes—namely, in my hands. “Yeah?” I call back over my shoulder.

            “I thought we had 11 round bugpin magnums coming in.”

            “We did.”

            I can’t believe I’m back to square one. Christ, for all I know, this could have nothing to do with me. It could actually be Harry who set all this off. And I wasted a month and a half—going over all my childhood sins, to a man who would never forgive me for any of them. It was all for nothing.

            “Buddy, maybe I’m blind, but—“

            With a sigh, I push myself up from my chair. “Coming.”

            I walk into the back, where Freddy is setting up for the day. Rodrigo is here too, thank God, but he’s out back having a cigarette. Leanna left yesterday and I’m already feeling her loss. Bad enough with Isaac gone too. Naomi will be coming in to pick up some work starting tomorrow, but I don’t like that my buffer zone between the idiot and I has been so drastically reduced.

            Ignoring the idiot, I go to the back room. Jason is going through the cupboards. “Didn’t they come in yesterday?” I ask. I had a half day, and usually FedEx doesn’t show up until late in the afternoon.

            Jason makes a face. “We had a ton of 11 round magnums come in.”

            I look at him a moment, then I get a sinking feeling. “Just a second.”

            I walk back to the front of the shop. They left the paperwork for me to file, because everyone knows how particular I am about it. I hadn’t gotten to it yet because I walked through the front door and went right to brooding.

            Third page in, invoice from Needle Supply. Damn it. Oh, damn it.

            Holding the paper in my hand, I walk into the studio. “Jason.”

            He pokes his head out from the storage room. “Yeah?”

            I hold up the sheet, slumping. “I ordered 11 round magnums instead of bugpins.” Freddy snorts, and I ignore him. I already feel like shit today, and now I feel stupid too.

            Jason shrugs. “Hey, don’t worry about it, buddy. We’ve got enough to get through a few more days. I mean, you always order far enough in advance. And we won’t have to worry about the round magnums for a while, huh?”

            With a little smile of relief, I say, “Suppose not.”

            Jason waves me off. “Go, order me some bugpins. Hey, can you do some 5 bugpin liners too while you’re at it? You know how many Naomi goes through.”

            I love him. Thank God for this lovely, stable man in my life. “Can do. Thanks, Jason.” He smiles at me, and heads back into the storage room. I sigh. I don’t like making mistakes. I _hate_ it, actually. But on the rare occasion I make them, he doesn’t make me feel terrible for it.

            As I cross the studio, Freddy says, “Nice move.”

            My improving good mood vanishes, and I say, “Fuck yourself, Freddy.”

            I’m almost at the door when he barks, “Hey!”

            This is an awful idea—oh God, it’s not even an idea. It’s my temper completely slipping out of control, and I don’t care.

            I spin on my heel and say, “I dare you, Freddy. I dare you to have a go at me today. Do you want to do this? Do I really look of a mood to play this game with you?”

            Only he’s too thick to stop himself. His face is all screwed up, and his skin is flushed, and I’m going to _destroy_ him. “You’re always so high and fucking mighty, always picking on everybody, every single mistake. But you know what? You’re not perfect, asshole.”

            Jason’s come out from the storage room, a look of ‘oh Christ, don’t let this be happening’ on his face. “Hey—what’s going on—“

            “What’s going on is this cocksucker—“ Freddy jabs a finger at me. “Acting like he’s in charge, when he’s just a fucking counter girl!” Jason tries to get in front of him, but Freddy leans past him. “You’re the fucking help!”

            It’s actually nice to have him lose it like this. It means I don’t have to be nice.

            “Does he go or do I?”

            Jason’s not listening to me. “What goddamn planet is that appropriate? I told you, I’ve told you over and over again—“

            Raising my voice, I say, “Jason.” He glances back. “Does he go, or do I?”

            He stares at me, then pales. “Don’t do this to me right now, Draco—“

            I shrug. “Well, that answers my question. Seven and a half years, and this is what we part over.”

            Jason turns around, putting up his hands. “No no no—“

            “Let him go,” Freddy says, “he’s fucking useless anyways—“

            “Freddy! Shut the fuck up!”

            I look right at Freddy and smile. “Enjoy this while it lasts. As you said, I’m just the counter girl. But when she finds out, I imagine Leanna will go too—“

            “Draco, we can fix this—“

            “Who needs her?” Freddy spits.

            “If I go and Leanna goes,” I inform him, “Rodrigo will too. That’s half the staff gone. And then Isaac will go and that will leave Jason with you. He knows he can’t keep anyone because of you, and word travels fast in this community. Nobody’ll come on. Then—then you’re gone, because you’ve worked the ‘my mother died, poor me’ card long and hard, but it doesn’t absolve you, and it certainly doesn’t guarantee you employment. In fact, it just makes you pathetic. So I hope you’ve enjoyed your time here, Freddy. I imagine a few days from now, you’ll only be a scratcher again.”

            I turn around and walk out to the front, Freddy calling after me, “Is that the best you’ve got? That’s nothing, you pussy—“

            I’m surprisingly calm. I pick up my picture of all of us from after the remodel, when the water main burst and we had to be shut a month. That’s really only the personal thing I’ve kept on the desk. I like a clean work space.

            Jason follows me, saying, “Draco—I’m sorry. I’m sorry, he’s being a dick—“

            I don’t pay attention. I pull the shop key from my key ring, and set it on the desk. “He’s not being a dick, he is a dick. And I don’t have to put up with it. I don’t deserve to be treated that way. No one does.” I look at him, and say, “You helped teach me that.”

            He looks so helpless. I know what it feels like—being torn between what’s right and family—but honestly, I just don’t care. “Draco, we can make this work—“

            “We can’t, and you know that. There’s my key. I’ll give you until tomorrow night. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume that’s the end of it.”

            The door opens, and a girl who doesn’t look any older than eighteen comes in. She looks at us, balks, then holds up her phone. “Um—hi. I was wondering—I saw this tattoo I liked—“

            I brush past Jason, then I’m out the door. He can clean up his own mess.

 

I sit with my arms crossed on the table, unable to keep my usual ramrod posture.

            I’ve no idea what magic is forcing me every night into the same dream as Harry Potter. I’ve quit my job. I’ve had very little sleep.

            I feel drained. The last few months have been…well. Not bad. Just stressful. Sometimes life is like that. Sometimes it’s not some great huge thing. It’s just a whole series of smaller things. I lead a full life. A messy life, in some respects. It’s not always going to be perfect.     

            That’s just the way of it.

            A cup and saucer is set down before me, and I force myself to sit up. “Thank you.”

            Mistress Teseli takes a seat alongside the table with her own cup of tea. Jasmine. It interweaves with all the other bewitching scents of this place. It makes me want to sleep. She’s in a matching dress and turban, same as always, only this time the colour is a faded shade of red. We are in her quarters above the shop. She shut the doors and locked them when I came in, without me having to say a word.

            “This is the first time you have come to me asking for this kind of assistance.”

            “I don’t know many magics,” I say, putting my hands around the cup. “Even if I did, I would not trust their judgment half so much as yours.”

            She smiles slightly. “You know what I like about you, Mr. Malloy?”

            “The unceasing flattery?”

            “Mm, that is part of it. But when I look at you I know you truly mean it, that it’s not an affectation. Most fear me. You, however, have seen far worse than I.”

            After a moment, I nod. “I have a healthy dose of fear mingled with respect when it comes to you, Mistress. However, my respect far outweighs my fear.”

            She sits back, crossing her long legs at the knees. Eyeing me from top to toe, she says, “So this is what you look like, out in their world.”

            I grimace. It’s the first time I’ve been to her shop in anything other than black that covered me from shoulders to shoes. The forecast was for 90 again, so I went out in a tank top, suspenders holding up my grey skinny jeans. “I apologize for the informality of my dress. I did not expect to bother you with this. Had I—“

            Mistress Teseli waves a hand. She has the hands of a wandmaker. Her fingers almost seem like magical instruments themselves. “You do not need to impress me. That task has already been completed.” She has a drink of her tea, then casts her deep eyes upon me. “So. You find yourself caught in an astral projection with the Boy Who Lived.”

            More like the Bitter Old Bastard Who Managed to Cheat Death. “I do.”

            “And this has gone on for a month and a half.”

            “Yes.”

            “But you did not seek help.”

            “I don’t—care to seek help. Not when I think I can fix a thing myself. I—value my independence. That, and the fewer people who know about this the better. I don’t care to have my name in any papers. I have had enough of that for a lifetime.”

            “Independence can be liberating, yes. It can also be a cage. I would have been happy to help, Mr. Malloy.”

            I run an index finger over a notch in the heavy, circular wooden table. “Mistress…if it is not too impertinent—we’ve known one another eight years. Would you call me Draco?”

            She considers it, then nods. “I shall. You need not call me Mistress, only Teseli. That is my name.” She briefly lifts a brow. “Though not the name given me at birth, of course.”

            “Malloy isn’t on my birth certificate either.”

            “The names we choose for ourselves are significant. That you chose a name so similar to the one you were given, but that marked you as a regular—it is a curiosity for me.”

            “If I may be so bold—why Teseli?”

            Her smile warms, and her nails clink against her saucer. “My grandmother—a witch the likes of which you have never encountered—was named Tessa. And my middle name was Lee. It hurt a little less than my first name, which was a repudiation of all that I was as a woman.”

            “I cannot imagine,” I say. “Your strength does awe me. Teseli.”

            “Flattery,” she sighs, but not unhappily. She draws her wand from the inside of her sleeve with one fluid motion, making everything look so entirely effortless. “Let us see what can be found.”

            I sit still, not caring for when I’m put to examination by wand. Too many memories.

            She flicks it one way, then the other, before raising to my head. She draws it downward with a light stroke, and I swear I see a glow in her eyes as she does it, burning within. I sit as patiently as I am able, reminding myself that she is doing me a favour. She would not hurt me. Not every person with a wand is out to wound me.

            Teseli sits back, cocking her head to the side. She studies my chest a moment, to the point where I look down. Setting aside her wand, she says, “I’m afraid my magics would do you little good.”  

            “How do you mean?”

            “This magic upon you—it was not made by a wand.”

            After a moment, I slump. I can’t help it. I put my head in my hands. “Grand,” I mutter. “That is just…grand.”

            “Have you come into contact with any magical creatures?”

            “In _Williamsburg_?” I ask from under my hands, unable to completely quell my sarcasm.

            “Anything that might have been suspicious.”

            “Nothing. The only thing that was suspicious was that crazy old woman, who looked like every stereotype of a witch that normals could dream up. I think she was about five seconds from offering her menstrual blood to the moon goddess or some such nonsense.”

            Teseli grins at that, showing off sharp canines. “That manner of nonsense keeps our kind safe.”

            “Yes, but I wasted a month and a half thinking that I made a wish, and that’s what put me in this position. I’ve been—reliving all the worst moments of my life with a man who thinks I’m a mere step removed from a serial killer, all because this insane muggle got on my nerves.” I stop myself. “Regular. I mean regular. Muggle is reductive and infantilizing.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous. I remember a time when we called them no-majs.” Teseli sniffs. “Far more accurate if you ask me.” She sets an elbow on the table, looking me over. “I can tell you this much. The spell was—open. The possibility was there, but someone—sealed it. You or him, I cannot tell without him here. From what you told me, though, I believe your initial idea was correct. You’ve been forced into a position with a man who does not see you as you are. I do not believe you will be released until that comes to fruition.”

            I have to think carefully about this. No, who am I kidding? I don’t have to think that hard at all. “And there’s no way around it? Or even a way to make it—easier?” I hate that I’ve said it. “I’m not afraid of hard work, you know this about me, but—night after night. Having to atone for things I did as a child—while I was still out in spots—I tell myself that I can outlast him, but I don’t know that I can. I want to live in the here and now, but this thing…it’s dragging on me. I don’t want to live with this.” With a self-loathing sigh, I prop my head up on my hand. “Don’t worry—I know what a whinging fool I sound like at the moment.”

            “Father,” she says, “let this cup be taken from me.”

            “Sorry?”

            Teseli gives her head a shake. “Mundane religion. Good for a laugh now and then, but overall an ugly, murderous thing. Nonetheless, there are a few quotes one can use in times of distress that adequately describe the human condition. It’s only a fool that wants to suffer, Draco.” She sits back, setting her wand upon the table. “I know a bit myself about things done when one is young. Take it from me. It does neither of you any good to act as though the past is all there is. You’ve acted from a place of good faith. You wish to atone. It is possible, though, that it will not be enough.”

            “You’ll have to forgive me, but I refuse to believe I’ll spend every night, for the rest of my life, arguing with Harry Potter.” I sit back as well, folding my hands in my lap. “I suppose I could move to a part of the world where night doesn’t overlap at all. Do you think Oregon would be far enough?”

            “I think you’ve run more than far enough.”

            I glance at her, and give a shake of the head. “I’d argue with that man until the end of the universe before I would return to England.”

            “That is not what I meant.”

            “I’ve no desire to live with magics.”

            Teseli places a hand on the table between us. “You put yourself in a place where no one will understand you. You willfully estrange yourself from the only people who would understand you as you are.”

            “I beg to differ. I believe I’ve placed myself in the only place where they would.” I can see she is unconvinced. I smile slightly. “I _love_ my life,” I say with absolute honesty. “The only parts that are really occasionally rubbish are the bits that have to do with magic.” I see her face darken, and say, “Which is only my opinion, of course, and meant with all due respect to the power and craft behind it.”

            Teseli studies me a moment, then says, “Never wish to be other than you are. That leads to madness. I know this better than others. And never—never, Draco Malloy—wish to be _ordinary_. What a dreadful curse that would be.”

            I know better than to argue.

 

There’s not one but two faces waiting for me as I come home. Mrs. E is lurking about, looking harried.

            As I walk up to the door, she points a finger at me. It’s practically weighted down with silver rings. “You!” she exclaims. “Should be more respectful of the sacred forces that bind this galaxy together—“

            “Fuck off back to your coven of middle aged lithium addicts,” I bark, snapping my fingers at her to get her away from my building. Her eyes widen, and I take a quick, threatening step towards her.

            With a squeak, Mrs. E hurries out into the middle of the street. “I’ll call the police on _you_! Disrespect is a crime! A crime!”

            Jason watches all this with sunken eyes, seeming unsurprised by the proceedings. He’s sitting on the steps to my apartment building, furry arms propped on his knees. “What’s that about?”

            “Oh, this insane woman who thinks she can cast magic spells. She thinks she granted me a wish.” I slump down beside him on the steps.

            “What did you wish for?”

            “A man with green eyes and a nice cock. I got the green eyes bit, but damned if I know what his cock looks like, and it turns out he’s a bit of a bastard, so I returned my wish. She’s being very petty about it.” I drop my head onto his shoulder. He’s soft and I just want to relax against his size for a while. Wrapping my arm through his, I watch the evening glow of the sunset in Brooklyn. It makes everything look a bit better. Everyone has an aura.

            We sit in silence a moment, then he pulls something from his pocket. He holds it out to me. My store key. I take it, and slip it into my pocket. I don’t say anything about it.

            Jason takes a long breath. “Buddy, I’m—so fucking sorry.”

            I squeeze his arm. “I know you are.”

            “I…I promised Marie when he was born…I’d always take care of him.”

            “You are. Not spoiling someone—teaching them they’re not entitled to everything—believe me, that’s far better for a person than letting them think they’re owed the whole world.” I pet his shirt sleeve. “How bad was it?”

            “I waited until we were outside so that he wouldn’t break anything. Thank Christ I never gave him a key. It was…ugly.” Jason squeezes the bridge of his nose. “He’s nothing like her. She was just…Draco, you wouldn’t have believed how great she was. And she was such a good mom. He wasn’t like this until…after. She’d be so fucking disappointed in him. She’d be so disappointed in me for letting it happen.”

            “People make their own decisions, love. I’m sorry, but that’s how the world works.” I turn my head enough to kiss his shoulder. “If you need to hash it out, you’ve come to the right place. I’m the grand high reigning master of separating oneself from one’s shitty family.”

            “The way I let him talk to you—the way I let him talk to all of you—“

            I poke him in the side. “The way you let him treat _you_ , you daft git.” I burrow against him, despite the heat. “Dead sister or not, he’s not fucking worth it.”

            “All heart, you are.”

            “I’ve plenty of heart. I just don’t waste it on those who don’t deserve it.” I pat him on the side, then push myself up. “Come upstairs. We’ll have lemonade and watch _Doctor Who_.”

            I hold my hands down, and help pull him up. Least I can do. It’s awful to say, but maybe his misery can syphon away some of mine.

            There’s the Malfoy that I’ll never fully be rid of.


	12. Chapter 12

I watch and wait while Harry digests the information. He stays where he’s been the whole time, hands in the pockets of his pajamas. I didn’t let him get a word out, I just told him I had news.

            Finally, he says, “You’re certain?”

            “I am.”

            “Well. Fuck.”

            “The wandmaker concurred with what I already believed. We’re here until you see me as I am.”

            “Well—“

            “So to that end, no more of the old days.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            “It’s an exercise in futility.” I shrug. I’m sitting on the ground before him, leaning back on my hands. “I’ve not done this before, and I believed that going over the past, trying to make you see things perhaps from my perspective, would help you see why I made some of the decisions I did, while not excusing any of them. But it’s clear to me that you’ve not healed from those days, and it’s just jabbing at an old wound for you, night in and night out. It makes you miserable, and your mood has a habit of spreading. So we’ll try a different way, if you don’t mind.”

            Harry looks at me suspiciously. “How so?”

            “We only discuss the last eight years. Or twelve, in your case. My real life didn’t begin until eight years ago, so you had a four year head start on me. If anything earlier does arise—organically—we can address it, but no more of this going year by year, picking at old scabs. It’s not good for either of us.”

            I expect him to fight me. He’s been so reluctant to discuss the present. Not to mention reluctant to agree with me about a single thing.

            Except Harry gives a nod, and says gruffly, “We can try that.”

            Keep your eyebrows down, Draco. This is what you wanted. “Very well.” He takes a seat in front of me, keeping a respectable distance as always. “Would you care to start?”

            “Start how?”

            “Tell me something. Ask a question. Whatever you please.” He makes a face, and I say quickly, “All right. I’ll start.” I thread my fingers through my hair, mussing it a little, then I tuck it back behind my ear. “Let me see.” I think back. Then I snort. “Have you ever been on an airplane?”

            He shakes his head.

            Rolling my eyes, I say, “I was so looking forward to it. They showed me all these films, you know, during my rehabilitation. Teaching me about the regular world. And I always loved flying, so much. I was quite taken with airplanes. My teacher, Margritte, she said I was an outlier. Every other wizard always wanted to know, ‘How does it stay up?’ Well, how does a broom stay up? Magic, physics, I never cared about the reasoning behind it. I just liked that it did. I didn’t need to know the why. And my last years in rehabilitation, when I knew I’d have to leave England, for the sake of my own sanity and wellbeing, I counted the days not until my sentence ended, but until I could fly. It didn’t occur to me that I’d get a wand again, that I’d be allowed to do magic. I was fully determined to lead a life without magic. And if I wanted to fly, I would do it on an airplane. I kept my plans to myself and Margritte. She helped me find out what I’d need in order to come here. We worked out a visa, and the ticket, and all without anyone in the Ministry knowing. They’re so detached from the regular world, after all. Well, I had my last dramatic encounter with the Wizengamot, then I was disowned by my mother—which I entirely expected—and a day after that I was at Heathrow. And I thought King’s Cross was chaos. This was in 2002, mind, so security was ridiculous, and then there’s me, after four years of house arrest, surrounded by this— _noise_ , the likes of which I’d never encountered. You remember the Quidditch World Cup? That’s what it sounded like to me. The sound, this sheer wave of sound. I said my goodbyes to Margritte, and did all the things security asked of me, even if they seemed silly, because I honestly didn’t know any better, and then I got on the plane. I was in the middle of the middle row. It was the first time I’d ever worn a seatbelt. Imagine that. Twenty two years old, and it’s not only my first time on a plane, but using a seatbelt as well. We’re so—coddled by magic. Don’t get me started on that. I was rather jumpy from all the noise, but there was this older woman beside me, and this massive man with great huge biceps on my other side, and I thought, this is it. All those years, all those years in that same small place, and I did it, I made it through, and now I’ll fly, I’ll _fly_. The plane, it began to roll down the runway, and my heart was in my throat, and it was—oh, it was everything. Everything I had wanted. I can’t remember the first time I was on a broom, I was so young, but this—I thought this might be what it had felt like. We lifted from the ground so smoothly, rising up into the sky, and it was all I could have possibly wanted.” I smile crookedly. “Do you know what turbulence is?”

            Harry frowns slightly. “In the abstract.”

            I lurch forward with outstretched fists, as if I’m shaking him with my mind, and he startles. “It’s like that. Except you drop twenty, thirty feet and you bounce up again. And the plane starts shaking all around you. This metal tube you’re in that you _cannot_ control, that you’ve entrusted yourself to, and you suddenly think to yourself, _why the fuck did I trust muggles to do anything_? And it drops, and rises, and shakes, and it feels like your stomach’s going to come sailing out of your mouth.” I laugh at the memory, rubbing my thumb over the stubble beneath my lip. “I realized I’d taken this poor old woman’s hand, and I was squeezing so hard I can’t believe I didn’t break her bones. I said, ‘Does this always happen?’ And she just patted my hand, and said to me, ‘It helps me to say this. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.’ And so she taught the 23 rd Psalm and we levelled out after about five minutes, and I thought to myself, I’ll never fly anything I don’t control myself ever again. I haven’t been on an airplane again. I travel, I go by bus or if I’m lucky a friend will drive. I’ve not even been on a broom in twelve years.”

            I lean back, thinking of that rickety-seeming metal monstrosity. And Mrs. Anderson. Bless her. I hope she’s still among the living. She was very sweet to me that whole trip.

            “Don’t you miss it?”

            I raise my head. Did he just ask me an honest question? No snark included? “What? Flying?” I give my head a shake. “No. I’ve plenty of things to enjoy in the real world. I really don’t need any of that magic lunacy intruding upon it.”

            He looks odd. Maybe I’m just not sure what to do when Harry Potter isn’t looking at me with utter disdain. He’s leaned over, picking at a hole in his sock. Who in God’s name wears socks to bed? And in July of all things?

            “Is there nothing you miss?” Harry asks, his voice level.

            I could ask what he really means—or why he’s being so calm, after I called him a useless twat during our last meeting—but I decide not to press my luck. “You’ll have to give me a moment to think. It’s not exactly a thing I dwell upon.” Outstretching my legs, I cross them at the ankles. “While I do think, I’ve a question for you.”

            He frowns, but he doesn’t immediately refuse.

            “Why Chiltern? And not just that you could be isolated. Did you actually just twirl your finger over a map, or was there a reason?”

            It’s like I can watch the struggle happening inside his head, only it’s written all over his face. _Do I give him an honest answer? Fuck him, it’s Draco Malfoy, I don’t need to give him an honest anything. What would it hurt? It would hurt because it’s Draco fucking Malfoy_.

            Good sense seems to prevail, though, and Harry takes a deep breath.

            “When I was twenty two, I went on a trip across country. I met a woman—a muggle woman, and so I stopped where she was. We were together four months. I have happy memories of the hills, which is more than I can say for the majority of places I’ve been. So when I decided to get a place of my own, away from—well, just away, that’s where I chose to go.”

            “Is it a happy place to live?”

            He gives me a near wounded look, like he’s checking to see if I’m taking the piss, and I lift my hands, trying to convey that I’m _not_ , I’m just asking a question. Harry swallows, like there’s something sour in his mouth, and says, “It’s beautiful. Where I am. Right now, everything is—green. Just green, far as the eye can see. I can walk up this hill behind my house, and I can see for kilometres, and I can’t see another human being, I just see this endless green countryside.”

            I wait, then say, “That wasn’t my question.”

            “What was your bloody question?”

            “Is it a happy place to live?”

            “What kind of question is that?” he says, exasperated.

            “One asked in curiosity.”

            Harry does that bitter swallowing thing again. “It’s fine. It’s quiet. Not so far from everything that it’s a struggle to see people. When the internet goes down, it’s a bit of a kick in the teeth. But it’s all right.”

            I’ve already asked him the same question twice, so I won’t go for a third. I think I’ve gotten my answer, though. “All right.”

            “Why did your mother disown you?” I look up, and Harry shrugs. “You tell her you were off to live with muggles and she flipped her lid?”

            “That was on the periphery. It was more that I said not only was I gay, but I refused to carry on the bloodline.”

            Harry stares at me a moment, then says, “Shit. You didn’t.”

            “Oh, I did.”

            He presses his lips together. Then he sighs, and says, “All right. Sheer prurient curiosity—how did that conversation go?”

            This is increasingly odd. He’s behaving almost human today. I wonder if someone spoke to him. It couldn’t possibly be that he’s even tired himself out from being a prick.

            I inhale, then say, “Very well. But only because you used the word ‘prurient.’”

            “I’ve a word-a-day calendar,” he says with a sneer, cutting me off before I can say anything snide.

            “Gift from Granger?” Well, not _completely_ before.

            “Sod off.”

            I rub a hand over my knee, thinking. “So my mother.”

 

“After my—incident, when I was eighteen, that helped spur the rush to put some kind of rehabilitation program into place for those of us on the losing side. I certainly wasn’t the reason it happened—they’d been bandying it about for months, but apparently I was the proof in the pudding that if they didn’t do something other than lock us away and pretend we didn’t exist, we’d go mad, and God only knows what we’d be like when our sentences were up.

            “I was only back from the hospital a week when Margritte and Thomas arrived. We never saw anyone from the outside. Food would show up inside the barrier while we slept, once a week. I’d barely eaten in months as it was. Mother pretended it didn’t bother her, but every day, that first six months—it was like a knife. Watching the indignity of everything being stripped from her. I was just this—impossible mess of sheer fucking lunacy, like a tangle of wires that was sometimes run through with electricity. And seeing her—I revered my mother. If anyone wants to call me a mummy’s boy or what have you, they’re welcome to it. I honestly couldn’t give a shit. She was so elegant, and poised, and she always had an answer. Any question I ever asked, she never once in my life told me that she didn’t know. That kind of certainty can be so reassuring. It can, of course, be dangerous as well.

            “That first half year was about as bad as it could be. Trapped in that house where I watched people murdered, tortured. Where he made me torture people. At first, I kept near to my mother. It was just the two of us in there. No servants—the elves had been taken away. Not even they could make it through the barrier. Those first weeks, she and I stayed close to one another, but as time dragged on, I became more and more…deranged, as it were.

            “After, though, as I was saying—Margritte and Thomas arrived. I’d never seen either of them before, but I was so happy to see unfamiliar faces. I had to act like I wasn’t though, because I was Draco Malfoy, after all. He was a tall, skinny fellow, bit of a wispy beard. She was short, barely came up to my shoulders, with a headful of grey curls. Heavy accent. I thought they were both magic, at first. They sat us down, and explained that they were from the Ministry, and I said something snotty, as you’d expect. They said that they were implementing a program, designed to rehabilitate Death Eaters and others affiliated with the Dark Lord. Mother was unimpressed from the start. You can imagine the look on her face.

            “When they said that participation would result in time reduced from our sentences, I stopped with the attitude. After my incident, I had resolved to make the best of things that I could. No matter what that meant. And here an opportunity had dropped into my lap. I was ready to do anything they wanted of me, but Mother was the one who asked what the program would entail. When they said intensive muggle studies and immersion, I think we were both—gobsmacked, frankly. Mother drew herself up, and said, ‘We don’t have _that_ kind of thing in this house.’ And Margritte said, ‘You have that kind of thing in your house right now.’ The first muggle to ever set foot in Malfoy Manor, and we hadn’t a clue. She’d worked for years on coalitions for muggle and magic relations, and they’d called her in to participate in the rehabilitations. They thought I’d be a good place to start, that I’d be the most likely to change my mind about things, because I was the youngest Death Eater there ever was.

            “Mother said, ‘I will do no such thing. Nor will Draco. We will serve our time with dignity.’ I think they irritated her a bit, because they went in assuming that she’d probably have nothing to do with it. So they were looking at me more than anything else. But the chance to get out early? To learn about something other than—the fucking horror I’d been surrounded by for years? I said, ‘I’ll do it.’ Mother looked aghast, said that she and I had to discuss things privately before we could give them a final answer, but I was set on it. Did I want to learn about muggles? Christ no. I didn’t care about muggles. I said I didn’t need to think about it, that I’d do what they wanted, and when did they want to start.

            “That would probably be the moment when the fracture between her and I started.

            “I started my studies, and there were days at first where I wanted to vomit at the material in front of me. Respect of regulars. They started with all the things that muggles and magics have in common, and I’d spent my whole life listening to my father tell me they were a subspecies. But I never said anything. I was too smart to do that. Margritte was my lead instructor. They’d given me a television and a computer, and I did my work on that. She’d come in, four days a week, for a few hours, and talk to me about muggles, and I was my usual sullen self. But I kept my mouth shut.

            “We got past the bit about our similarities, and we were supposed to go into the daily lives of muggles, only Margritte wasn’t stupid. Far from it. She knew I was keeping my mouth shut and not saying what I really thought. She thought I needed a good sharp shock to my system. So she gave me a movie to watch, which came on multiple tapes. Given that you’ve insulated yourself from the muggle world, I doubt you’ll have heard of it. It was called _Shoah_.

            “Well. Nine hours. Twenty three minutes. I’ll never forget. It was about the Holocaust, which you must have at least heard of. There’d always been this assumption that there would be a culling of muggles, when the Dark Lord reigned, but I never thought too long or hard about the actual mechanics involved. This, though—nine hours, twenty three minutes, watching what happens when a madman decides another human is lesser, and his followers go through with attempting to exterminate them. All those people. All those children.

            “Next day, Margritte came back, and asked me what I thought. I’d not slept a wink. I didn’t know what to say, and I was honest for once. I said if that’s what muggles were capable of, I didn’t need to know anything else. She said, that’s not what muggles are capable of. That’s what _people_ are capable of. Then she showed me—she always wore long sleeves. Like I did. And for partly the same reason. But she rolled up her sleeve, and she showed me—same place where I’d willingly gotten my mark. They’d tattooed a number on her at the camps. She said, and I’ll never forget, ‘This was put on me. And still, I want to help you. I want to help save you from this madness.’ And I didn’t know whether to think she was insane or an angel. She’d have to be mental to want to help me. I’d—been part of a group that would have done the same to people as they did to her. And still—she never turned from me. She saw me for what I was, and decided she could help me.

            “Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, but that’s when she had me. I put up a cursory struggle here and there after, but from that point forward, I actually started to listen. Not just learning the words and reciting them back, but actually listening.

            “At first, Mother was pleased to see that I was starting to—come around. She didn’t care why, just that I didn’t seem at risk of killing myself any longer. But as I became more immersed in my studies, she became increasingly cautious. ‘Remember, Draco, this is just a means to an end.’ ‘Don’t believe everything they tell you, Draco.’ I’d nod, and say, ‘Of course, Mother,’ and then I would go up to my room and read _Catch-22_ and _To Kill a Mockingbird_ and Graham Greene and Iris Murdoch. And movies—oh, I’d never seen movies in my life before my rehabilitation. It was an uncouth muggle art. But I had my television, and my VCR, and the first year they would just give me tapes to watch. The second year, they allowed me some reception, so I could get the BBC. I think part of the reason it all worked so well on me was that I had no other new material coming into the house. If it had been merely magic focused, maybe I wouldn’t have been so captivated by it. I mean, the house had books—so many old, dusty books. Mother started trying to get me to read those—this is about your great great grandfather, this one’s by one of your ancestors on one of the fucking million magic wars we’ve had. The last thing I wanted was to immerse myself in more pureblood shit. Well, in the beginning, it wasn’t that it was pureblood. It’s just that it reminded me of everything that came before. And I didn’t want that. The more I learned though, the more I figured out about the world, that’s when I realized I didn’t want anything to do with the tradition. I was seeing the world through books and my television for the first time, and I realized how expansive and incredible it can be. Then there’s this pureblood insanity that’s about supremacy and hatred and I’d experienced it firsthand. To willingly step back into that when I had been shown that there was more to the world—it was unthinkable.

            “I was about two years in, and one day Margritte and I were working, and she’d ask me about the old days. She always did. She wanted me to see the possibility of a future, but she wouldn’t let me forget my sins either. She said that would be almost as bad as committing them in the first place. We were talking, and she asked me if there’d ever been anyone special at school. She said I’d never mentioned a girl. Had I had a girlfriend? And I honestly—just froze. I didn’t know what to say to her. I hadn’t talked about being gay with anyone. I had the one circuitous conversation with my father when I was twelve, and he told me that it was not allowed, and that we’d never, ever discuss it again. I was so ashamed that I didn’t. I wouldn’t even let myself think about it. I’d do things here and there to throw off the scent—led Parkinson on a little bit—okay, a lot—but it wasn’t conscious. Now here was this woman who I trusted, who had taught me so much, who had taken a chance on me after all I’d done—and all of a sudden I was terrified. What would she think of me if she knew? People will forgive some things, but in our world, you simply could not be queer. I don’t know what it’s like now, I don’t even know what it’s like in families that aren’t pureblood, but the refusal to talk about it, the jokes people made at school….I didn’t think I could ever tell anyone. I had seen a few people on TV at that point, and in books, but there was that remove. They also had people visiting other worlds on the TV, so everything on the telly could just be a lie, after all. So I’m sitting there, no idea of what to say, and Margritte gives me this curious look and says, ‘Draco, are you gay?’

            “That she _asked_ —I almost died. I felt like a deer must in the woods when they think they’re alone and they hear the snap of a twig. I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t do anything. Then she took my hand, and said, ‘Schatz—my sweet boy.’ She held my hand, and she said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’ She had my hand, and that she called me that—that she was so kind to me—I didn’t know what to do. I did the only thing I could think of. I just started begging her not to tell anyone. Don’t tell my mother, please don’t tell my mother, don’t tell anyone, please don’t _tell_. I was practically frantic, almost in tears. So she was the only one who knew for the longest time, or who had at least said something. She was the only one I could talk to about it, though that took me some time as well.

            “My last year of house arrest, my mother and I grew further and further apart. In my third year, I’d tried to talk to her about regulars. Tried to tell her that they weren’t so different from us, that we shared the same petty concerns and that we loved and had families, and I was so impossibly naïve. Thinking that I could change her mind. Thinking that if I explained it properly, if I could want her to understand hard enough, she might. But you’ve met my mother. She’s flexible, but there are some things on which she is immovable. She didn’t possess my father’s views, which would have probably led to extermination, but she believed that regulars were a lesser species. That there was something wrong with them.

            “My fourth year, I came to the realization that the problem was not with them. It was with us. We’re not a greater anything, and God knows we shouldn’t be in charge. To be perfectly frank, if one side had to die out, I’d prefer it would be magic kind. We are, as it is. Fewer and fewer, and all the more wicked and terrible due to inveterate inbreeding amongst purebloods. Regulars—they are extraordinary. Hard working. Terrible, too, don’t get me wrong. I don’t fetishize them like some do. You’ll have your Arthur Weasleys who pretend to care so much about muggles, but really all they want is to marvel at how well they get along with their ‘disability.’ As if we aren’t the freaks. Magic kind—we’re frivolous and insular, rarely looking towards advancing the world. We use the same modes of transportation that we have for thousands of years. Meanwhile, in the last century, muggles have gone from horse and cart, to automobiles, to traveling in outer space. Do you know how many witches and wizards are interested in going to outer space? None that I’ve bloody heard of. Magic kind only cares about itself. When they do care about regulars, it’s in an infantilizing way—we have to protect them, because God knows they couldn’t protect themselves. I’ve seen the worst the magic world has to offer. I came to the decision that I would not be bound to it.

            “Mother began to bring up what I would do once I was finished my confinement. She had started referring to my studies as though I didn’t really mean them. That they were just a means to an end. That wasn’t I clever for pretending to care so much about them that I managed to knock a year off my sentence. Sometimes I would simply ignore what she was saying, and other times I would say, ‘I don’t want to fight. May we please discuss something else?’ Manners are manners after all, and that would hold her off. But she started talking about taking my NEWTs when I got out, purchasing a new wand—it was ridiculous. It was obscene, for one—who would I buy a wand from? Ollivander? I think not. I merely kept my head down, and I said over and over again, ‘We’ll see, Mother.’

            “She grew increasingly worried, though another would not have seen it. Finally, she started talking about how I would have to come back and take charge of the manor, at least until Father returned. It was crazy. Of course it was crazy. Bad enough I’d spent four years locked in those walls. To think I’d come back for another _sixteen_. If he even survived Azkaban. To think I’d willingly subject myself to a life sentence in that house. And all because it was expected of me. I was the male heir. The male heir takes the seat at the manor house. He marries, and has children, and one of those children will eventually take his place. Ad nauseum. I had hoped that she would not expect it so soon. She said that of course I would need a few months away, but she expected me back within three. And I just said, ‘We’ll see.’

            “I’d long since made my mind up. I’ve no love for England, and Christ knows England has no love for me. The thought of going back into the magical world—to this place where I was hated and that I had come to have a considerable amount of distaste for—it was unpalatable. I meant to leave, and I didn’t mean to ever come back. Margritte helped me make my plans, made the arrangements. All I needed was to be granted my early release.

            “Which I was. By that point, I was so desperate to be done of it all that I went from the Wizengamot directly back to the manor. I knew it would be the last time I ever saw it. Mother was—she had dressed for the occasion, like she hadn’t in years. The most beautiful dress robes. She had put together dinner, and she wanted to celebrate, but it seemed cruel to sit through that, pretending any longer. What I was going to do to her was cruel no matter what, but I was tired of the lies.

            “I said, ‘I cannot stay.’

            “She had me by both my hands, and she was so cold. The both of us, our circulation is terrible. But in that moment, I remember how cold her hands were and how desperate I was to get away from her and that place and England. She asked what I meant, and I said, ‘You know what I mean. I’m leaving, and I’m not ever coming back.’

            “She laughed a bit at that. Said, ‘You can’t be serious. You just mean to go for a bit of a holiday.’

            “I knew I’d have to push her. We’d been teetering on this precipice, her and I, for some time, and the only way she would accept my leaving would be if she wanted me to go. I knew it would be easy enough. All I had to do was tell the truth.

            “Only—she’s my mother. I love her. For all the—awful things she’s done, I still love her. Just like I love my father, which I’m sure you’ll never understand. I can’t forgive him for the things he’s done, but my love for him is not a thing that can be broken by space or time or imprisonment. My mother had always been my greatest champion. She protected me from everything she could. Even threats that were imaginary. Even threats that were created. And I didn’t want to hurt her. We had survived four years in that fucking house. I didn’t want to hurt her any worse than I needed to.

            “So I tried to only say, ‘You understand why I can’t come back.’

            “But she wasn’t having it. She was smiling a little, thinking that I didn’t mean it, that I was merely being dramatic. She said I’d be back. Of course I’d be back. This is where I was supposed to be.

            “And so I said it. I said, ‘I can’t stay here. I can’t be lord of the manor, because I’m gay, and I’ll never lie about it again.’

            “Predictably, that changed her tune. She dropped my hands—stepped back from me. Her whole—face changed. She said, ‘Stop this nonsense. You know we don’t discuss that.’

            “I’d wondered if my father had told her, or if she just figured it out herself. I always thought a little bit of both. I held my ground. Said that I would never pretend to be something I wasn’t again, that I was through not talking about it. She started looking at me in a way she hadn’t before. Disgust. I was well acquainted with it from all my time at school, but seeing it on my mother’s face, seeing that I was suddenly this terrible disappointment…. I think I expected it to hurt, but it didn’t. It was almost gratifying. I was everything she didn’t want from me. That was such a relief.

            “She tried talking me down from it. Started saying that it wasn’t unheard of that the head of house had his dalliances on the side, and who was to judge. My ‘proclivities’ as she referred to them, they weren’t an iron clad impediment to my taking the manor seat. I’d still have to marry, of course, and produce heirs, but who I fucked on the side was no one’s business.

            “The whole time, I was shaking my head. When she finally finished, I said, ‘I will not subjugate my entire identity to keep up some meaningless tradition.’ For a pureblood family, that was about as strong as it got.

            “Well, she completely lost it. Went up one side of me and down the other about the importance of tradition. Then she started on how everything had been done for me. That I was ungrateful, that everything she and my father had ever done was to make a better world for me, and how was I repaying them? By betraying all their principles. She said something along the lines of, ‘I suppose you’ll probably go live with filthy muggles now.’ Before I could get another word in, she kept going. And going and going.

            “Finally, she said that the only reason I was still alive is because of the sacrifices she and Father made. That’s about the point that I stopped just standing there. I said to her, ‘The only reason I was in danger in the first place is because you put me in that position to begin with. You don’t tell a child that you saved him because you lifted him out of a burning room that you threw him into first. You knew what Father meant to have me do, and you didn’t stop him, you both near ruined me, and I’m not having it, ever again. I’m getting as far from you and this place as I can, and I’m never coming back.’

            “She said of course I’d be back. No one would want me. I was deluding myself if I thought anyone in the magic or regular world would have me. That I was a freak, and an ungrateful one at that. That I simply didn’t understand the way the world worked, and what they had done for me.

            “I rather lost my temper at that, and told her the bit that I hadn’t thought I would say. I said to her, ‘You’re right. You did so much for me. And here’s how I’ll repay you. I will _never_ produce an heir. Never.’ She went rather pale at that, and started to try reasoning with me again, but after one’s own mother calls you an unwanted freak, it’s fairly difficult to come back from such a thing. I said, ‘You near ruined me. This is my response. The blood line ends with me. There will never be another Malfoy. I swear it on the grave of all those we helped murder.’

            “Mother went fairly cross at that, and nasty. She said, ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. Always just doing what you’re told, same as always. It was that dirty muggle creature put these words in your mouth—‘

            “And then I slapped her. Full across the face. First and only time I ever actually struck my mother. She’d hit me plenty over the years. Never more than a slap, though. It had never occurred to me to hit her until that moment. Good boys, good men, they don’t hit their mothers. But hearing her talk about Margritte that way—she could say what she wanted about me, but I’d be damned if she used that word about my friend. Mother went absolutely grey, save the spot on her face where I’d hit her. That was pink. She stared at me, and I was so livid, I said, ‘If you ever say another word about my friend, you’ll never even see me again.’

            “She recovered enough to yell at me, to tell me to get out. I didn’t need to be told again. I was furious, and more than ready to go. To just be away from all the terrible memories, all that hatred. She followed me all the way to the front door, shouting at me, and I didn’t say another word. I left with the clothes on my back and nothing else. So that’s how I left Malfoy Manor, and why I didn’t speak to my mother for two years.”

 

I look up. Through the glowing nothing, I glimpse shadows of my bedroom. It’s momentary, but there’s no denying what I see. It’s happened on and off for the last five minutes.

            “What is with you today?” I ask.

            Harry blinks, and says, “What do you mean?”

            “I get the distinct impression that you’re actually _listening_ to me today. Really, did I just have to call you a foul word in order to knock some sense into you?”

            He looks at me a moment, then gives me a sweet smile. “Maybe that just convinced me it was really you, and that you aren’t a clone.”

            I bark, leaning onto the butt of my palms. I have an idea all of a sudden—he doesn’t have his glasses on. Strange, what comes with us into this place. I won’t tell him my idea, though. If I’m right, I don’t intend to give him an advantage, even if he’s somewhat mellowed today.

            “Well,” I say, “I’ve told you something personal. Your turn.”

            “Don’t suppose I can say I’m not in the mood.”

            “You can. I’m not here to force you into anything. But I would point out that we can’t move forward if the both of us aren’t willing.”

            Harry takes a long, deep breath. He wraps his hands around his feet, and thinks a while. “I’m tired,” he admits. “Tired of fighting.”

            “You’d have to be.”

            “I don’t like you. I’m never going to like you. But—you’re right. Being at each other’s throats—“ He stops himself, closing his eyes. He practically forces out, “Being at _your_ throat, it doesn’t feel good. I…get like this sometimes. Angry for the sake of it. It’s rubbish. If I don’t have to do it, I don’t intend to.” He scowls. “You make it difficult, though, by being so fucking mature.”

            I grin, showing off all my teeth. “And showing that I could be miserable made you feel better about things, did it?”

            Harry shrugs, then says, “A little.”

            “Well, God, Harry, if all I had to do was lose my temper with you occasionally, you could have just told me this a month and a half ago. Spared you some sleepless nights, I dare say.” I flip my hair back from my face, effortless, and repeat, “Something personal.”

            He mulls it over.

            He mulls for a ridiculous length of time.

            Finally, I say in exasperation, “You don’t need to tell me the secrets of your bloody soul. Anything. Anything whatsoever that I don’t know.”

            Harry almost shivers—like there’s something wrong with giving up even a little piece of himself.

            Then he says, “Hermione and Ron have a little girl.”

            It’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst. Writers run on comments. Just saying.


	13. Chapter 13

“Motherfuck,” Us mutters.

            I look at him sharply. He’s only talking about his obnoxious little sister, after all. “Language.”

            I’m startled when he steps closer to me. “Keep your head down. Don’t look at him.”

            I know almost straight away who he means. We’re walking past the Betances Community Center, and that bastard always likes to cruise near here. I’ve gone through this before with Us, so I don’t even raise my head a little bit, just continue talking to him as though nothing is wrong.

            Evan, though—he doesn’t know any better. He looks up and starts trying to find who Us is talking about.

            “Put your goddamn head down!” Us hisses.

            From my peripheral vision, I see the squad car pull away from the corner. With a sigh, I say, “Too late.” I stick my hands in my pockets, glancing back over my shoulder. “You want to drop into the Center? We could try and outlast him.”

            “That motherfucker will just sit outside until that place closes down. ‘Stead of actually finding some real criminals.” He pulls out his wallet, and takes out the wad of cash in it. “Dre, you gotta take this, he’ll just pull it off me if he finds it—“

            I take the money, watching the squad car pulling a U-turn down the street. Without a word, I slip it into my back pocket.

            Evan finally says, nervous, “What’s going on?”

            “You’re about to meet a racist prick,” I mutter. “Don’t say anything, just get out your phone, stand over there, and start filming. If he yells at you and tells you to stop, don’t do it. He can’t legally force you to stop, and if he tries to take your phone, I’ll smack him myself.”

            Us starts to speak, but then he looks at me with a crooked smile. “You would, wouldn’t you.”

            I eye the car slowly coming towards us, predatory as a shark, and I say, “I’ll do a hell of a lot worse if he hurts you.” I give Evan a light push. “Go. Over by the wall. Don’t be frightened.”

            “Yeah, Ev,” says Us, “you don’t need to worry your pretty head about a thing. You’ll always be the right colour.”

            The car actually puts on its lights and siren for the last twenty feet, as if we aren’t standing here waiting for it. With crossed arms, I mutter, “For fuck’s sake.” Us has already taken his hands out of his hoodie, holding them out at his side.

            The car stops in front of us, and Officer Lyman grins out his window. “Demetrius,” he says, practically relishing the word. “Now what have you been getting yourself up to?”

            “Nothing.” Through gritted teeth, Us adds, “Sir.”

            I pull my phone from my back pocket. “Anything we can help you with, Officer?”

            “Malloy! Still making up for all that white guilt, I see.”

            I turn on my camera and start filming. “Well, apparently I have to take on your share as well, so my work is never done.”

            He gets out of the car. He’s middle aged, getting soft around the middle. When his cap is off, he’s got receding ginger hair. He looks affable enough, but he split Us’ lip once. And three years ago, he and three other officers choked a nineteen year old man to death when he refused to put out a cigarette. No charges, of course.

            There are never any charges.

            Officer Hansen gets out the other side. He’s been riding with Lyman the last year or so. My age, and without the sense to do anything other than what Lyman tells him.

            “You know the drill, Demetrius,” Lyman says.

            Shaking his head, Us puts his hands down on the hood of the car and sets his legs apart. I can feel the anger radiating from him. The embarrassment. And I’m powerless. I can’t do anything to stop it. I can just stand here and witness.

            “Any reason you’re stopping him?” I ask, stepping into a better position to film the whole thing.

            Lyman starts patting Us down. “Someone matching his description held up the 24 MiniMart down the street.”

            Us says, “Let me guess the description. Black.”

            Lyman’s hands linger on the insides of Us’ thighs, and I see Us close his eyes. He’s trembling, he’s so furious. “On film,” I snap.

            Lyman just grins up at me. “Being thorough. You never know where these kids hide things.” He barks, “Shoes off!” Us pushes off his sneakers. He’s biting into his lower lip. Just another minute. Hold on for another minute. “What are you, stupid? Socks too.”

            I glance over to make sure Evan’s all right. Us can handle himself, because God knows he’s done this before, but I doubt Evan’s ever been near anything like this. He’s watching with wide eyes. Good. He can see that his problems really aren’t the worst in the world.

            So Us is now standing on the sidewalk in his bare feet as Lyman turns his socks and shoes upside down, peering into them. It would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking grotesque, a grown man studying the insides of a teenage boy’s shoes.

            Lyman tosses them aside, and stands back up. “Guess you got lucky this time, Us.” He rubs a hand over Us’ head, and my blood boils. “We’ll see you next time!”

            I bite my lips shut, because I know that to speak in this situation could just make things worse. I watch as the police officers get back in their vehicle and drive off.

            Us has to walk a few feet to pick up his socks and shoes, and I put my phone back in my pocket. He doesn’t look at either of us, and I know he’s too mortified to. Evan looks shaken up, but I can’t exactly pity him at the moment.

            Us walks back over to me, and I wonder if I should say something first. Take the conversation back to his sister? That always gets him going. But then he just grins, and says, “Good thing I gave you my money, or my black ass would be in the back of that squaddie, huh.”

            I smile with relief, and clap him on the back. “When I grow up, I want your composure.”

            “Ah, fuck him. Evan—you okay?”

            The other boy nods, joining us. “Uh huh.” Evan swallows. “That was, uh…tense.”

            “Oh, that was nothing. You shoulda seen what he did to Michael last year. Now that was fucked up.” Us snorts. “Imagine if he’d found that money. I don’t think he’d believe me when I told him what it was for.”

            “Can’t imagine why,” I reply. “Let’s go, shall we?”

 

“Do you know what stop and frisk is?”

            Harry frowns. “It sounds vaguely naughty, but I’m guessing from your expression that it isn’t.”

            I have a short laugh, but it’s bitter. “No, it’s this…fucking racist policy where the police can pull over any black or brown man that they see and put their hands all over him to see if he’s a weapon or drugs or anything. It’s an abomination and I hate it. I fucking hate it. One of my boys was pulled over today while we were going to get him some Legos—did you ever play with Legos?”

            He makes a face. “I had a couple of old Duplos that Dudley didn’t want anymore.”

            “Well, Us is very into Legos. I’ve told you about him. My brilliant one, this year’s problem case. And the thing that he loves more than just about anything is Legos. I’ve been to his place, and he has these huge sets that he’s made, and just these big imaginative pieces he’s come up with on his own. Really beautiful things. Anyways, he and I and this third boy, Evan, we were going to find some Legos that Us found on Craigslist, some old classic set for two hundred dollars—it’s his money, he can do what he likes with it, but—anyways, it’s one of my evenings I spend with Evan—he’s not really one of my boys, but—“ I pause. “Or he is—it’s complicated. I’m getting off track. We were walking to get these Legos, and this police officer with this terrible track record of beating on my boys pulled over, frisked Us for no reason other than he could. Made him take off his socks and shoes, left him standing there without them. I see it happen to my boys all the time. Nothing I can do about it except stand there and watch because I’ve got the privilege of being pale as fuck, so no one would ever think of doing the same to me.” I frown at Harry. “Has that ever happened to you? Have you been pulled over?”

            A little surprised, Harry says, “Ah—no. No, I can’t say that it has. That doesn’t really happen in the wizarding world, does it. No one’s ever cared that I’m brown.”

            “Is that what you call yourself? Brown, not black?”

            “Suppose so. There’s not exactly categories like that with us, is there. There’s always been too much fuss about purebloods and muggle borns and half breeds to break it down any further. Besides—my mum was white, and Dad, he was half white himself.” Harry shrugs. “If I ever call myself anything, it’s English, or a wizard.” His eyes darken a little. “To be blunt, though, I’ve wondered if the Dursleys would have been a touch more civil if Dad had been all white, but that’s just crying over spilled milk, isn’t it.”

            “It is gross, though. A white family keeping a child of colour locked away under the stairs.”

            “You’re not pitying me, are you?”

            “For God’s sake, it wouldn’t matter if it was you or Grindelwald. No child deserves to be treated that way. No child should have to answer for some—luck of the draw genetic characteristic. I see how my boys are treated—I want to fucking scream sometimes. But I can’t. It would just make it worse for them.” I sigh, and say, “Sorry. I had to vent to someone, and unfortunately you were the only available adult. In years, if not emotionally. See, I’ve insulted you a little, so now you’ll feel compelled to speak to me.”

            He smiles—just a little. He does have a nice smile. That bit is undeniable.

            “What do your boys go on to do?” he asks.

            I light up. I can’t help it. He asked about my boys, and whenever anyone does—oh, fuck it, I can’t pretend to not be chuffed about it. “Oh, all sorts of things. Max, he’s a police officer himself now, which amuses me to no end, and I do like to know there’s a good one in the bunch. My boys, they’ve a fifty percent rate of going on to college, which is much higher than the norm here, that’s for damned sure. I’ve got one who’s studying physics at the moment, and John, he’s just been hired as an engineer. Twenty two, and he’s been hired. Ah—Paul, he was a business major, and he’s just gone to work for a consulting firm. Consulting what, I don’t exactly know, he tried to explain it and it went over my head. And Ty—Ty’s my pride and joy. My first success story. My greatest success story. Went to Columbia on a full scholarship—psychology. Did so brilliantly he finished early. Top of his class. He’s on his Master’s now. He’s in England, actually, at Oxford. England can piss off, but I was so pleased he’s had his time there. He might be back at the end of the summer, I haven’t heard. And of course, not all my boys go on to college, which is fine. Not all of them go on to anything good either. I’ve got three of them in jail. The one’s there for murder. The other two, burglary, drugs. But the rest, for the most part, they’re just living normal lives. Manuel’s working in the bakery, and Chaz, he’s managing a restaurant. Immanuel, he’s an auto mechanic. Just had his second daughter. Dotes on them. Kwesi, he’s moved out to Portland, in Oregon. He runs a record store, of all things. That’s one I would not have seen coming, but apparently he’s making money hand over fist. Fucking hipsters. Well, if they keep his pockets full, bless them. But they are ridiculous, and I say this as one. For God’s sake, you’ll have to tell me to shut up about them, because I really could go on endlessly about my children.”

            He’s giving me a strange look. Somewhere between amused and confused.

            “What? Astonished I could care about other people?” I roll my eyes. “Trust me, I was infinitely more shocked.”

            “I—uh….”

            He swallows. I pull my head back, waiting cautiously.

            Harry inhales through his nose, then he actually slumps a bit. “I washed out of the Aurors.”

            Of all the things he could have said, I was not exactly expecting that. “Oh.”

            He rubs his hands over his face, pressing those sturdy fingers into his eyes. “So—oh, fuck it, I’ll just tell you.”

            Harry sits up as straight as he’s able, putting his hands on his knees, and looks me square in the eyes.

            “I should have never gone into it. I had a—month, after things. People said, too right, that I deserved it after everything that had happened. And then they started coming to me. Asking me to do things. Asking what I wanted to do next. Asking me to testify at trials. Yours was the first I went to. After the fifth, I said I wouldn’t do anymore. Hearing people make all these excuses—people I’d watch throw killing curses at Hogwarts students—at least your family took responsibility, even if they didn’t mean a word of it. Kingsley, he’d heard me say more than once that I wanted to be an Auror. We were talking, when I told him I didn’t want to testify anymore, and he asked me if I was still interested in being an Auror. I said yes, because—what else was I going to do? I didn’t…think that there was any other thing I could do. I’d always been good with fighting the Dark Arts. I’d been great at it, honestly. So of course I’d keep doing it. Didn’t occur to me otherwise. Hermione, of course—“ He raises his eyes upwards.

            “Tried to talk you out of it.”

            “Tried to have a very well-reasoned conversation with me about maybe going back to school, thinking things through—not trying to rush into everything two months after I’d killed the most wicked wizard in history. But I…I’m not completely dense, you realize. I know that I have a tendency to act first and regret later. I know that about myself. You don’t need to keep hammering that home.”

            “Someone has to, until you learn.”

            He tries to give me a look, but it isn’t exactly fully formed. “Anyways, I’d already told Kingsley yes, and so—I was given honorary NEWTs. Didn’t have to take the exams. It was just assumed that if I was capable of defeating Voldemort, it would be silly for me to have to go through school testing. They didn’t test me for Auror training either, like everyone else goes through. They just assumed I’d be able. So September came around, and there I was—training to be an Auror. And it…didn’t go well.”

            When he doesn’t continue, I say, “Would you care to elaborate?”

            “Everyone else in my lessons, they’d studied properly, hadn’t they. Some of them had fought in the war too, but they were the people who’d done proper well at school. Not like me. I was good in a few things, but the rest—Transfigurations, I was always rubbish at. Potions—hopeless until I had Snape’s old book.”

            Because he seems to respond better when I’m a little pointier around the edges, I remark, “Yes, everything in that book was just _gold_.”

            That gets a bit of a blush from him, but he keeps going. “From the start, I had the impression that I was—not going to do well. People around me were doing things so easily that I hadn’t even seen before. The instructors, they were patient with me. They were working Aurors themselves, and they just thought I was shaken up from the war. They gave me extra lessons to help me try and catch up. The other trainees, though—they went fairly quickly from awe to wondering how in the hell I tied my laces. You would have loved to see that.”

            “How _do_ you tie your shoelaces? Granger help you?”

            “I get that you’re deliberately trying to be a prat.”

            “You respond to that far better than when I attempt to be even handed.”

            “Yeah, well—two years of training. Every time, I just scraped by. It got out. Rita Skeeter, in between writing that hack piece on me, was still writing for _The Prophet_. ‘The Boy Who Lost His Nerve?’ Page one. Same as usual. Anything I did was on the front page. Couldn’t do anything without people—on top of me. Never knowing which person I spoke to was going to sell our five minutes of conversation to the press. Auror training, it’s set up into four terms. During my break, after third term, that’s when I sat down and did that ridiculous book with Luna’s cousin, Lemuel Lovegood. He was good about it. He’d written some good things. And if I was going to trust anyone—it’d be someone that Luna recommended. Then I get back for fourth term, and the book’s out and I’m struggling to get the work done, and meanwhile everyone’s reading the story of my life and all these mad things in the war. And I could see them looking at me and thinking, ‘how is this the same person?’ No one wanted to pair up with me. They were worried about being hurt.”

            “It can’t have been that bad.”

            “My spells—didn’t have the same—maybe I did lose my nerve. So what if I did? I made a stupid decision, going straight into the Aurors. I passed, but by the skin of my teeth. My friends, the family, they celebrated, but I kept being pulled aside. The people who cared about me saying, you got through, you proved you could do it. You don’t have to keep going if you don’t want. I was twenty. Stubborn. Thought that was their way of saying I couldn’t do it. Of course, they were saying I _shouldn’t_. I didn’t listen.” Harry gazes at the ground a moment, then he says softly, “I never fucking listen.”

            If he was anyone else—someone who didn’t mind my presence, say—I would go over there. I would sit down beside him, give him an elbow to the side to let him know things weren’t all that terrible. There’s worse things to be than stubborn. Evil, for example.

            “I was on probation my full first year. Probation is usually three months. Me, I had to be paired with a senior Auror four times as long as everyone else. I went in, I did my work, but—“

            He makes this little gesture. His hand almost lifts towards his chest.

            Deciphering, I say, “Your heart wasn’t in it.”

            Harry glances at me. Then he gives his head a shake. “It wasn’t just that. As soon as I went out as a licensed Auror, people just started coming for me. I survived Voldemort, after all—what a coup it would be to kill me. I wouldn’t just go out on calls. My partner and I would be sent out, and all of a sudden someone else would show up and try to murder me. The first year, that happened—four times? I was with Shaughnessy, though. She dropped every last one of them about a second after they locked eyes on me. But my second year—when I was off probation, and I was supposed to be paired with just another Auror—you’d think people would be eager to be paired with the famous Harry Potter. People in the department, though, they all knew I was a fuck up. That my glory days were several years behind me. They didn’t exactly relish the idea of having a partner who stood a fairly high chance of being assassinated, or standing in the crossfires of an attempt. My first partner—Gyeong—took a Cruciatus that was meant for me. Asked for a different partner after that. Next one, Murray, he just told me to stay as far from him as possible. That didn’t save him. He was twenty feet ahead of me, just outside Glasgow, and a bomb went off.”

            Harry merely shrugs, as if it’s all behind a veil. Like he doesn’t feel it. “That’s the second time I died. Or close enough to dying. Came to a place that was sort of like this, but not. You’ve read the book, you know what I mean. My mother came to me that time. Had a long chat. It was the clearest I felt in years.

            “But then I came back, and all the papers were saying that I’d killed Murray by being stubborn, by being a target. That I shouldn’t even be in the Aurors. That my record was spotty enough as it was. And my being around posed a danger to anyone who was near me. At first, I did what I always did. Dug in. They say something stupid, don’t listen. It’s all lies. I went back to work. Only they had me on paperwork. Told me I should take some time to heal. I lasted four months in the Ministry, doing all the paperwork they could throw at me. Finally, I started asking to be put back in the field. Not even because it was what I wanted. But because it was what I thought I should do. I’d come that far, after all. Every time I asked, the higher ups would say, we’ll see. We’ll see, Harry. Finally, I just did an end run around them. Went straight to Kingsley.”

            “You—went to the Minister of Magic and asked him to be let out into the field.”

            He swallows, then nods once. “I did.”

            “It didn’t occur to you that he might have more pressing matters?”

            “I did—I fucking did what you always said I did. I didn’t think the rules applied to me. I went to the top. You happy?”

            “Oh, thrilled. Obviously.”

            “There have been some—extremely humiliating moments in my life, Malfoy, but that one—easily in the top five. I was so—used to getting my way. And he was kind about it, he was, but he told me that in no uncertain terms would I ever be let out on field work again. That I should think about how I wanted to proceed.” Harry rubs his hand over his neck, grimacing. “So I went back downstairs, packed up what I had in my office, and left. Didn’t give my notice or anything. Was too embarrassed. Just sent in an owl the next day saying I was sorry but I wouldn’t be back.” Harry gives himself a shake, like he can rid himself of the bad memories with a single motion. “And that was my illustrious career with the Aurors.”

            “That’s eight years now?”

            “I quit about a month after you left.” He looks at me askance. “You honestly didn’t hear?”

            “Harry,” I say honestly, “I did not give a fuck if you lived or died. I was too busy trying to plan my escape to take your existence into consideration.”

            He sits there, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then he says, “Well? Let’s hear it.”

            “Hear what?”

            “Don’t tell me you take no satisfaction in the knowledge that I failed spectacularly at defeating dark wizards as a career. No man changes that much. Not to say that I believe you’ve changed—“

            “Oh shut up, I know you’ve already crested that peak.”

            “You’re going to sit there and tell me that you don’t take the slightest bit of glee in my failure.”

            Is he serious? It would appear he is. Looking at him from under my brows, I say, “Harry—all due respect, but—you’re just not that important.” He looks a bit ruffled by that, but I am not here to stroke his ego. “Until this minor catastrophe that landed us both here, I’ve not thought of you in years. The thoughts I _have_ had—haven’t been malicious. I just haven’t cared. Just because I hated you as a child doesn’t translate to any deep feelings on my part now. To be perfectly frank with you, I only want to know how you ended up this surly mess in front of me so that I can have some idea of the timeline in which we’ll need to be in close contact. If it’s just summer, well, that’s fine. Once we get back into the school year, though, I really hope we’ll have this wrapped up.”

            His head falls back on his shoulders. A low groan emanates from the back of his throat. “Why—do you have to be so bloody _sorted_.”

            “I just had the right people around me.” That gets me the evil eye, and I clarify, “As well as a desire for change.”

            “It’s not like I want to be stuck in 1998 until I die.”

            I don’t know if he means it or not. After all, it’s the last time he was important. So far as I can figure, I don’t believe he’s done anything of real meaning with his life since he left the Aurors. I’d lay money on his not even having a job right now. It’s just him all alone in a cottage in Chiltern. Doing nothing. Reliving the old days in his mind.

            Sounds _terrible_.

            “Do something for me.”

            Harry lets out a chuckle. “Not bloody likely.”

            “Go out into the regular world tomorrow and get laid.”

            Desperately unfair, is what this is. It’s impossibly gorgeous when a pair of green eyes blink like that. If only his body wasn’t attached to his personality or narcissism. “Beg pardon?” Harry says hoarsely.

            “Leave your house, go find some willing regular who has no idea who you are or aren’t, do naughty things with her, then come back here tomorrow night and we’ll see if you’re not so defensive. When’s the last time you were even with someone? I’m not speaking about dating, I’m talking about fucking.”

            Jaw agape, Harry sputters, “I—am not discussing that with you—“

            “So a long time. I beg of you. You’ve my permission to go do lurid things with the first person you find. For God’s sake, though, get rid of some of this gloominess.”

            “Let me get this straight. I tell you about my poor job satisfaction, and you tell me to go get fucked.”

            “What an interesting way to phrase that.”

            “Sorry?”

            “Putting it in the passive tense. Usually something I might say. Aren’t you supposed to be a strapping heterosexual?”

            I’m trying to get a rise out of him, and it works. Scowling, Harry says, “Get fucked, Malf—“

 

My phone.

            I’m barely conscious, but I grab it off the night table without looking at the time and flip it open. Eyes shut, I put it to my ear. “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing’s wrong. Why you gotta be so suspicious?”

            Eyelids fluttering open, I raise my head. “Us?” My clock reads 11:46. I was asleep for all of a half hour. “You don’t sound in distress.”

            “I’m not in distress. I wanted to tell you something.”

            I flop onto my back, rubbing at my eye. “And it couldn’t have waited until a decent hour?”

            “No. I decided on something, and I knew I had to tell you. Cause if I didn’t, maybe I’d change my mind. So you gotta—keep me honest on this one.”

            He’s not in immediate danger. That’s good. I roll onto my other side, tugging the sheets up over my shoulder. “All right,” I say sleepily, “you’ve decided something. What’s that?”

            “You asked me what I want to do. When I finish school.”

            “Mm.”

            “I want to be a lawyer.”

            That gets my attention. Cracking my eyes back open, I repeat, “A lawyer.”

            “Yeah. Can I do that? Will I be able to do that with my grades?”

            “I don’t know. You missed a lot of school.”

            “I got my SATs back today. When I got home.”

            “And?”

            “2330.”

            After a second, I grin. “Demetrius, just imagine what you could have done if you actually cared.”

            “Well—I think I care about this.”

            “And what’s to stop you from changing your mind tomorrow?”

            “I told you. I’ve told you, so it’s not just in my head anymore. It’s in yours too.”     

            “But I can’t do the work for you. You’ll have to do that on your own. I can encourage you, but if you don’t put in the time—“

            “I will.”

            “Where’d this come from?”

            “That asshole today.” I thought it might. Us says, “I want to go to a good school, and get a degree, and come back here, and any time somebody like that punk Lyman shows up, I want to know exactly what to do. I don’t just want to know what to do, I want to know how to stop it.”

            I don’t want to discourage him, but I want to be realistic about this as well. “It takes a long time to become a lawyer. And a lot of patience. Not to mention they usually don’t allow people with criminal records into law school.”

            There’s silence from his end. I wonder if he’s realized this might be a bad idea. If tomorrow he’ll act like we never had this conversation.

            “I’m not a kid anymore,” Us says. “I don’t want to—I’m not what everybody thinks I am, okay? I can—I can be more. I want more.”

            I think about it.

            Burrowing into the mattress, I say, “Well, I hope you enjoy those Legos you bought today, because that’s the last frivolous expenditure you’ll be making for quite some time. You need to start saving up now. Remember how you laughed at me when I told you that you needed a savings account?”

            “C’mon man, I was fifteen—“

            “You were sixteen, and it was six months ago. You come find me at the center tomorrow night, and we’ll go over everything you need. I’ll start doing some research. When you’ve got a day off, we’ll go open you a bank account. Do this right.”

            “Yeah?”

            And honestly, that single syllable, it might be the youngest he’s ever sounded. I don’t know why at first. Then I realize it’s because he sounds hopeful.

            “Yeah. You have any other epiphanies, or can I go back to sleep?”

            “No—no, that’s it. Hey—Dre?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Thanks.”

            He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t need to. “No worries. Go the fuck to sleep. Good night.” He says goodbye, and I hang up.

            I could go back to sleep. I could.

            Instead, I get up and go turn on my laptop. I’ve got to figure out how the hell to get Demetrius Glenn’s juvenile record expunged.


	14. Chapter 14

Arms are thrown around me. Without even looking up, I inhale the scent of hair spray and hyacinth. “How’s my beautiful boy?” a voice purrs in my ear.

            “All the better for your return.” I grimace and grumble as Leanna kisses me on the cheek, undoubtedly leaving a large red lipstick print. “Or perhaps not.”

            As I pluck a tissue from the box, scrubbing at my cheek, Leanna comes to perch upon the desk. She’s put a strip of blue in her black hair since last I saw her. With a devilish grin, she says, “I hear we almost staged a walk out.”

            “Almost nothing. I gave him my keys and everything.”

            Lowering her voice, Leanna looks towards the back of the shop. “How’s he been?”

            “On the surface? Quiet. Underneath? Self-flagellating.”

            Crossing her arms, Leanna says, “Good riddance. But think about it. You, me, Rodrigo—we could have opened our own place.”

            With a bark, I toss the tissue in the bin. “Get off it.” When I look up, I find Leanna arching one of those surgical precision brows. “Are you serious?”

            “Oh, just—“ She flicks her fingers through the air. “Putting it out there.” She gives me a sideways smile. “The three of us. Equal owners.”

            “Count me out. Sounds like far too much work.”

            “Not really. Not much more than you do now. You already look after the books as it is. It would just be responsibility. Being able to make the choices.” She kicks me under the desk. “Avoiding the threat of shitty coworkers, because we’d be the ones to hire them.”

            “Sounds fun. Let me know how it works out for you.”

            She pouts, but only for a moment. “Want to see my latest?”

            “Desperately.”

            Standing up, she turns and lifts her leopard print tank top all the way to the bottom of her breasts, baring her back to me. “You like?”

            She’s gotten an intricate black humsa at the small of her back. I wheel over a few inches for a closer look. “That—is quite lovely. Who did this? Owen?”

            “Mm. He says hi, by the way.”

            “Yes, well.” I touch the skin beside the tattoo. None of her tattoos are of a kind, and they’re spread out everywhere. All of my pieces have been done by Jason. I simply couldn’t do it the way she does. I want everything as a piece, spreading organically outwards instead of willy nilly.

            “He’ll be in town next week.”

            I roll my eyes and sit back. “So you fuck him.”

            “I did. In Chicago.” She turns around, pulling her shirt down. Checking her nails for imperfections, Leanna says, “But he asked about you.”

            Well, too late. I don’t intend to tell her. “No thank you.”

            “Why not? He’s cute. He has nice tattoos. He’s got a cock like—“

            “Like what?” Jason asks, coming out from the back. “Who’re we talking about?”

            “Owen.”

            “Never had the pleasure.”

            “I’m telling Draco that he and Owen should hook up when he’s in town.” Jason and I share a meaningful look. Leanna glances between us and says, “What?”

            We both lift our hands and clap twice in unison.

            After a moment, Leanna’s face screws up, and she says, “Oh, for— _ew_. No. He’s not a moron, he would have been treated—“

            “He gave it to Lisa last year and Daniel like four months ago,” Jason says, going to unlock the front door. “Just saying, you should be better about sterile surfaces.”

            “Don’t be naïve. It’s not like I fucked him without a condom. What am I, eighteen?” She rolls her eyes, and heads back to the studio, muttering, “Guess who’s going to the free clinic later.”

            I catch Jason’s eye, and we can’t help a small, wicked smile. Even if our friend has gone and gotten herself an STI. Jason puts his arms on the counter, and says, “So don’t fuck Owen, but—anybody lately?”

            “Anybody for you?” I respond.

            “I’m busy.”

            “So am I. Between here, the boys, and—“

            Oh. Oh dear. I almost said ‘Harry.’ That’s not—that is not welcome.

            Trying to cover, I say flatly, “Everything else, there’s no time for that kind of nonsense.”

            Jason’s giving me a look. No, I am not doing this with him. I stare right back, not giving any quarter. He starts to grin. “Draco—is there a guy?”

            “There is not,” I say quickly. Fuck! Too quickly.

            “Uh huh.” Jason moves around the counter, heading towards the back.

            I’m turning in my seat, saying, “I’ve just been chatting with someone back home, that’s all. I don’t even like him—Jason, don’t you dare—“

            He passes through the doorway, saying, “Hey everybody!”

            I’m about to go leap on his back and possibly smother him, but my phone vibrates. Damn it to hell. I pull it out—Us. Well, it’s not like he’s calling.

            ‘@center 2nite?’

            ‘Yes, why?’ I type back.

            ‘meting just u &me?’

            “Hey!” Leanna says, startling me. She’s hanging off the doorway. “Why didn’t you _say_ you had a boyfriend?”

            With a disgusted sigh, I mutter, “I’m not playing this game with any of you.” I reply to Us, ‘Meet me at the office at 7 and I can give you 15 minutes.’ I shove my phone into my back pocket and walk to the back. “Jason Marley, you’ve got an extremely lax relationship with the truth.”

           

When the knock comes at the door, I’m standing on the swivel chair, wobbling slightly as I use a cloth to get the dust off the top of the bookshelf behind the desk. “Come in!”

            I started sneezing earlier, and after a cursory examination discovered that anything above my eye level was covered in a thin layer of grime. Inez, our usual cleaning woman, is visiting relatives back home, and this substitute—well, let’s just say it would be tempting to use my wand on the whole place. Give it a bit of a shine.

            Glancing back as Us enters, I say, “Afternoon, Mr. Glenn. Is this a conversation that I need to be seated for, or—“

            The door locks.

            I look back, startled. The only time a boy locked a door on the both of us, it was Jamal, and he was planning on killing himself in front of me. Oh, Us does not look well. His eyes are glazed, and he’s swallowing, not able to look at me.

            Straight away, I climb down off the chair. “What’s wrong?”

            He coughs, a ragged little throat clearing. “I gotta—I need to talk to someone, and you were—you were the only one I could think of.”

            This is not a behind-the-desk conversation. I go around to meet him, pulling out one of the two chairs in front of the desk, gesturing for him to take it without actually touching him. “Sit down.”

            He needs to run his hand along the top of the chair, like he needs to be in contact with something corporeal, then he sits down. He hunches forward, and usually he looks like a grown man—my height, shoulders considerably broader than mine—but right now he looks very much like the sixteen year old he is.

            I take the other seat, unobtrusively touching my back pocket to make sure my phone is close at hand. There’s a notepad in front of me, and a pen as well, if I need to write anything down. “Something has happened?”

            Us laughs weakly. “You could, uh—“ He runs a hand over his face. “You could say that, man.” His eyes look a bit wild for a second.

            “All right, Us, first things first—are you hurt?”

            “No—no, Dre, it’s nothing like that.”

            “Are you sure? Because you look like you might be ill. Again. This is twice in a month, my friend.”

            He sucks in a breath. “Dre—Dre, I gotta tell you something because if I don’t tell someone—but you’re gonna think I’m crazy.”

            “I’ve heard a lot of crazy things in my life—“

            Us cuts me off with an adamant shake of the head. “ _No_. I mean _crazy_ crazy. Like you are gonna think I’m insane crazy, but—it happened.” A bit helpless, he says, “It _happened_.”

            I get up and go to the rarely used water cooler jammed in the corner between filing cabinets. I get him a little cone filled with water, putting it in his hands, before sitting down again. “In your own time. And whatever you want to tell me, I’ll listen to you. No matter how insane it might seem.”

            Us downs the cup in one go. He looks utterly shaken, like he’s just seen a car crash. The white cup looks very small in his large hands. “They said I could…I could tell one person. Or—or else something would—happen to me.”

            Sharply, I say, “You said you weren’t hurt.”

            “I’m not, but these people—these people are _crazy,_ dude. They said I could tell one person, and I just—you’re the only person I could think of, and they talked about it, and they said that you were fine, but if I told anyone else—“ Us puts his fists against his forehead, crumpling the cup. “Oh man. What if I’m crazy? What if I’m psychotic or something, Dre?”

            “Okay, none of that. Sit up. Us, I said sit up.” He listens, miserable. “Start from the beginning.”

            Us sighs, defeated. “It’s my sister.”

            This—just keeps getting stranger. “What about Elysha?”

            “You know how—you know how I’m always bitching, and—it’s so weird. Oh man, this is so weird. We were having dinner last night, and all of a sudden there’s this knock on the door. So Grams goes to get it. And it’s these two white people who look— _weird_. Dressed weird, acting weird—just _weird_. And they say that they’re here because Elysha’s going to their school this fall. Grams was like, what the hell are you talking about, like a charter school or something, because she hasn’t tried to do anything like that, I mean—I heard her talking the other night about maybe special ed because she’s finally listening to me about this ADHD thing, but—but it’s nothing like that. It’s not a charter school. It’s some weird school for—oh God. Shit, you’re gonna think I’m out of my mind.”

            It’s almost the end of July.

            I burst out laughing.

            Us is looking at me with wide eyes, but I can’t help myself. I know it’s not funny—he’s so worried and obviously in knots about the whole affair. It’s not funny. It’s really not.

            Only, Christ, I thought it was something terrible. ‘I thought it was a charter school.’ I start laughing all over again, sliding down in my chair and having to cover my mouth with my hand.

            After about fifteen seconds—oh, I am an awful person, and a truly subpar mentor—I manage to say, “Ilvormorny.”

            His eyes widen. “You’ve _heard_ of it?”

            I reach over, clapping him on the bicep. “Oh—Us, I’m sorry for laughing, but you had me proper scared for a moment there. I thought child services was coming for her or something.” I sit back, with a crooked smile. “So your sister’s going to Ilvormorny.”

            Us is turned in his chair, staring at me. “How do you know about it?”

            I grimace. “Ah—“

            “Do you know what they—“ He lowers his voice, and hisses, “Do you know—what they said she is? For real?”

            “I’m presuming a witch—“

            He waves his hands at me. “Shh!”

            “Though I know plenty of feminists on Samatchin are passing out flyers demanding we stop using gendered monikers at all and start saying ‘magic users’ instead. Well, not to mention those who want to just say, ‘magics’ instead, because you wouldn’t want to leave out the squibs.”

            “Are you even speaking English right now?”

            “Sorry, I think all that laughing might have deprived my brain of some oxygen.”

            Us demands, “How do you know about all this?”

            I take a breath. Well, I know what happens to him if he says anything. But in eight years, I have never had this situation arise. It has to be handled very delicately. Of course it had to be with my problem case.

            “Now,” I say, “I need you to stay very calm.”

            “Why?”

            I reach down, and take my wand out of my boot.

            Us has pushed his chair away from me, into one of the other bookshelves. It teeters a moment, and he reaches back quickly, holding it in place. Then he turns to me, jaw hanging loose. “No….”

            “Sorry,” I say, tossing the wand on the desk.

            I don’t laugh as he looks, mouth agape, between the wand and I. I really don’t find it funny in the least. Hopefully this doesn’t destroy our relationship, but I wouldn’t blame him if it did. The world is just too bizarre for some people to handle at times.

            Weakly, Us says, “You’re….”

            I nod. “Alas.”

            He stares another moment, then says, “Jesus! That’s how you stood in front of that bullet!” I shrug, modest about the whole thing. “Dude, are you bullet proof?”

            “I am _not_ , so don’t get any ideas about aiming a gun at me.” I nod back to the water cooler. “Are you all right? Do you want another drink?”

            Flatly, Us says, “I’m gonna puke.”

            “Well, don’t do it on me. Just because I’m a wizard doesn’t mean I fancy using a spell to clean up your sick.”

            Us has gone a bit ashy, truth be told. “Wizard,” he says faintly. He reaches out, setting his hands on the first surface he can find. “This is real. This is real, or I’m crazy.” He shuts his eyes tight. “Oh shit. I’m crazy. That’s what this is. I’m crazy.”

            “You’re not crazy. The world is just infinitely stranger than you believed it to be.”

            Us shakes his head. “No. No, I’ve—this is definitely schizophrenia.”

            “Open your eyes. Demetrius. Oh for heaven’s sake, don’t make me come over there.”

            His eyes pop open. “What’ll you do to me?”

            They have to make assumptions, don’t they. _Regulars_. Crossing my arms, I say, “Young man. I’d remind you that you’ve an appointment with a very nice lawyer friend of mine who’s agreed to get your record wiped, for free, because I’m generous and soft hearted. Now’s not the time to piss me off by making me feel a freak.”

            “But dude—this is messed up—“

            He looks at me, a bit desperate. All I can do is sigh and shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you. I grew up with this insanity.”

            “So you were— _born_ like this?”

            Oh, I’ll stop that in its tracks. I retort, “As was your sister, and you’re not to ever forget it. This is not a thing she can help, Us. The worst thing you could do is make a fuss about this.”

            “ _Fuss_? Do you hear yourself?!” Us points at the wall, presumably in the general direction of the outside world. “Motherfucker, there’s magic—“

            “Language—“

            “Actual factual fucking satisfactual magic, so don’t be sitting there telling me not to make a fuss. I’ll make a fuss if I damn well want to.”

            I say, “So you want me to cancel the appointment.”

            “Why are you acting like this is normal?” Us yelps.

            “For me this is completely normal. And I’m not hearing this from a young man who was entirely nonplussed about someone being shot for their sneakers.”

            “That happens all the time!”

            “It does not!”

            “It does too!”

            Propping up my head, I say, “I’m not lowering myself to this level of discourse.”

            “This is banana balls _insane_.”

            “Well, once you’re done with your hysteria—“

            “Hysteria?!”

            And now I’m reminded of ridiculous Harry Potter. That’s twice in one day. Not sure how I feel about that. But it’s certainly a story I can tell him tonight—no, Draco. Focus. “It’s perfectly normal to have a witch in the family—“

            “If it’s perfectly normal then how the hell have I not heard of it before?”

            “Reactions like this have something to do with it—“

            “Don’t put this on me—“

            I talk over him. “Being burned at the stake. Witch hunts. I know you’ve read your Arthur Miller. We keep ourselves quiet—for the most part—to avoid danger from you lot. And it’s normal like—having a cousin who plays minor league baseball. Or a brother in a wheelchair. Or knowing someone who was shot for their trainers. Normal not as in it happens to everyone, but normal to the point where there’s no need to panic. Your sister’s still your sister—she’ll drive you mad, she’ll wreck your things, you’ll love her, and life goes on. And me, well—I understand that to you I’m plenty odd, but probably no more so than any other white Brooklynite. I’m simply telling you, Us, that you’ve no reason to be frightened. Certainly not of me. Or your sister.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said that bit. After all—young magics in the house—

            Shit. He was starting to settle, but he’s clearly seen something in my face, because now he’s instantly back on edge. “What? What should I be scared of?”

            “Nothing, honestly. If she’s off to Ilvormorny, you’re well past the worst of it. Sometimes, the young ones, they don’t have control of it, and—they’re children. Accidents happen.”

            “What kinda accidents?”

            Gently guiding him away from the topic, I say, “But they go to school to learn how to control themselves. This is a good thing. She’ll be going to an excellent school, with excellent instructors, and on top of that, she’ll be out of your hair for—God, how long is the school year at Ilvormorny? Is it eight months or ten?”

            Us looks at me from under his brows. He’s not having it. “What—accidents?”

            I fix him with a gaze and answer, “No worse than a fifteen year old boy bringing a loaded weapon into the house and having a child pull the trigger.” Us scowls, dropping his eyes. I’ve never met his sister, but there’s something—odd and protective at work here that I don’t exactly care for. “Dodged a bullet on that one, Us—literally. Your sister—has abilities. She’s going where she’ll learn to use them. I understand you’ve had a shock, but I won’t stand for this bigoted attitude about it.”

            “Dre—you are the whitest man in history. You do not get to tell me _I’m_ being a bigot—“

            “You are about this, and I’ll stop it in its tracks before it starts. You’ll go home tonight, and you’ll sit down with your sister, and you’ll talk about this.” He starts shaking his head, and I snap my fingers. “That was not a suggestion. She has spent—years, feeling alone, not knowing what was wrong with her. You’ve been too busy to be anything but annoyed by her. Now you have an answer, and she’s going to get help, and you have the balls to come in here and act all up in arms about it? Not on my watch, Demetrius. You’ll go home and tell her you want to hear all about it.”

            He lets out a breath. “You don’t—understand how crazy this is—“

            “No. You don’t understand how normal this is.”

            Us screws up his face, looking around the room. Like there’s something in here that will make all this disappear. Or just untangle all the knots so his world view can shrink back to its previous size. Anxious, Us asks, “Can’t she just—not? Can’t she make it—go away—“

            I sit up straight. “Absolutely _not_. That is—no. Trust me, that is—that is literally _—literally_ , Us, I’m not kidding, the _worst_ thing that you could suggest. It would—eat her from the inside out. It would kill her. Actually kill her. I understand wanting things to—be the way you thought they were. Life doesn’t work that way. You have to let her be herself. Otherwise—it would get ugly.”

            “What—kind of ugly?”

            I raise my shoulders. “Children—they can be remarkably powerful. They possess certain abilities that we just lose over the years as we learn to control our magics. A little girl might wish she could walk on the ceiling, so she does. A little boy wants a toy from the other side of a store window, and all of a sudden it appears in his bag. Just by thinking a thing, by wanting it badly enough—they’re not even aware, sometimes when their emotions are strong enough, they just react—“

            I go a bit blank.

            Ah.

            Oh. Oh dear.

            I’m a moron, aren’t I.

            Yes. An absolute moron. And I’ll never hear the end of it.

 

I knock on the door. Then I step back, going across the hall, and have a seat. I pull my legs up under myself. I’ve put on a sweater, my wand carefully tucked into the sleeve.

            This is not my comfort zone. At all. This is not even my comfort continent. I do not want to do this. More than that, though, I don’t want to see the building torn to shreds.

            The door cracks open an inch. Unblinking green eyes peek around the corner.

            I say, “Hello, Dustin. It is Dustin, isn’t it?”

            He stays where he is, not opening the door any further. But I see his small hand wrap around the edge, and squeeze.

            “I saw your mother at her job when I came home, so I know you’re alone. And I’m just going to sit right here. I won’t come any closer. I’ll stay right where I am. You and I though—we need to have a discussion.”

            He swallows. He whispers, “I didn’t—take anything else.”

            “It’s not about that.” Voice level. Face calm. I don’t know how to be nurturing. I can deal with teenagers, because they’re all edges. How the fuck do I deal with an eight year old? “I think you might know what it’s about.”

            He does nothing, just staring at me. I wish he would _blink_.

            As gently as I’m able, I say, “You can do things. Things you shouldn’t be able to do. Perhaps things that frighten you. Isn’t that right?” That’s no good—he’s starting to look nauseous. Quick, I have to do something. “The reason you were following me all those times is because you know that I can do those things too. Right?”

            I wait to see what he does.

            No, he’s not going to—

            Oh, he is. Fuck, he really is.

            He starts to cry.

            Face crumpling, Dustin says, “I’m bad.”

            Lifting a hand, I shake my head. “No you’re not. You’re not. You’re just different. That’s not a terrible thing to be.”

            “I’m a _freak_ —“

            “Shh—“ I look around, anxious. All I need is for the neighbours to pop out and ask why a grown man is sitting in a hallway making a young boy weep. With a puff, I pull out my wand and cast. “ _Muffliato_.”

            That seems to be the right thing to have done. He stops crying from surprise. I have to remember—he’s just a child. I don’t need to be frightened of him. Unless—well, _unless_.

            Showing him my wand, I say, “If you’re a freak, then that makes two of us. Always better to know there’s more than one.”

            Dustin opens the door another inch. Miserable, he hiccups, “What _am_ I?”

            Steady, Draco. Child, not a teenager. Soft corners, not hard edges. “You’re a little boy,” I say softly, “who needs to blink far more often, with a mother who loves you, and you just so happen to be a wizard. That’s all.”

            He is weeping now. Quite openly. What the fuck do I do? “Wizards aren’t real.”

            “Well, neither are unicorns or dragons. Except they are. And nifflers. Do you know what a niffler is?” He shakes his head, swiping at the snot under his nose. Charming. “It’s a little furry thing—somewhere between—oh, a teddy bear and a platypus. Can you imagine that? And do you know what they’re good for? They like treasure. Coins, and diamonds—anything expensive they can get their hands on. When I was your age, I wanted one rather badly. But my parents said no. They knew it would strip the walls of every last valuable we had.”

            “The—the picture….”

            I nod him on. “My picture. The one that moves.”

            “That’s…your mom and dad?”

            “It is. And it moves because it’s magic. Magic is real. And you have it.”

            “I don’t want it,” he pleads.

            Careful. Careful careful careful. “I’m sorry, but it’s not a thing you pick. It’s not a bad thing. I know that it feels like that right now because you haven’t known anyone else like you—but you’re not alone. And I know you feel like a freak right now, but you’re not. There are so many more other people like us. It’s not just you.” I tilt my head. “Did you think it _was_ just you until I came along?”

            He nods adamantly, wiping his whole face this time with his arm.

            “How’d you find me out?” I ask, trying to guide him away from the dangerous areas.

            Dustin swallows, then swallows again, and swallows some more. “I broke a—broke a glass. My mom’s favourite glass. I didn’t mean to, sometimes it just—“

            “Happens,” I finish. “I know. It happens to all of us.”

            “So I—went downstairs to—be alone.” Hide, more like. “I was in the laundry room. Sometimes I go—under the pipes. I don’t know, I like to—be there. Then you came in, and—and you disappeared with this really loud noise.”

            “Ah ha. Here I thought I was being very, very sneaky. And you found me out nonetheless.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be sorry. Better that you figured me out than anyone else.”

            “What—what happens when everyone else finds out?” Dustin asks, and there’s an edge of franticness to his voice.

            Lifting my fingers a few inches, I soothe, “No one will find out. That’s not how this works. People who can’t do magic—they don’t know about us.”

            “Why?”

            “Honestly?” I put the back of my hand to the side of my mouth and say confidentially, “They’d be dreadfully jealous if they knew.” I put my hand back in my lap, and smile a little. “It’s just the way it is. Usually—people like us, you and I, we live with other people like us, so other people aren’t jealous.”

            “What about you?”

            It’s like navigating a mine field. Only if I trip anything, it could either set off a round of weeping or a potentially dangerous eight year old. “I grew up around other people like us. That’s all I knew. I was curious about the rest of the world. I wanted to know what they were like. So that’s why I live here.” I tuck my wand back into my sleeve, and lean forward. “Dustin, I am sorry I snapped at you all those times. You know what it’s like—to be worried that other people might see. I feel the same way sometimes. Not because anything bad will happen, but just because it’s the way things are done. Will you accept my apology?”

            The door opens a little more, and finally I can see all of him. He’s dressed in too large clothes for his slight frame. I never understood why children wore clothes too large for them until I went to school. My clothes always fit perfectly, and when I grew out, a new pair would be made. I can see scratches all up and down his left arm.

            “I’m—“ Another hiccup. “Sorry I spied on you.”

            “What about the wallet?”

            “I didn’t—“ He looks pained. “I didn’t even mean to, I just ran into you and I thought something and then later it was in my pocket—“

            “Okay. Okay, that’s fine. I forgive you. No need for tears. No need to be upset.”

            Dustin breathes shakily. “Why am I like this?”

            “Well, your mother’s certainly not a witch, so—your father maybe? Do you know your dad?”

            “No,” he says, and his voice is so small that I know to veer away from that.

            “Well, it could be that he was a wizard, or it could just be—“ I toss my hands up. “Sometimes it just happens to people. No reason. It’s not terrible. I mean—when you learn how to control all this? You won’t believe the incredible things you can do. You might not believe me now, but you’re fine. All of this is absolutely fine.”

            “Can’t I just—“

            I lower my head, waiting for him to continue. “Just what?”

            His hands form fidgety fists. “Can’t I just—not want it? Can I not—be?”

            And here’s why I cast the shield charm on myself before coming over here. Gentle, nurturing, calm. Two out of three things that don’t come easily to me, but I really want the apartment to stay standing. “No. I’m sorry. This is something that—you can’t wish away. If you did—if you tried hard enough—you’d hurt yourself. You might hurt other people too. Your mother.” I’m quick to say, “And I know you don’t want that. You don’t want to hurt anyone. You just want—to feel normal. Is that right?”

            Here come the tears again. Nodding, he makes a noise of what I presume is affirmation.

            “That’s right. Good man.” I rub a hand over my mouth. I could have just gone to the authorities first, but they don’t exactly have a light touch. And they always presume that every child would be absolutely _thrilled_ to be a complete freak. Better that I told him first. Take some of the sting out of the mess. “Why don’t you sit down? Sit down, and we can talk. What time does your mother get home from work? Dustin?”

            “Ten.”

            As he slides down the wall, I say, “Ten? That’s awfully late for you to be on your own.”

            I’ve clearly said something wrong. His eyes well up even more, and he stutters, “She had to get an extra shift—to pay for—for a doctor—because I’m bad—“

            “Oh no. Shh, shh, shh. You’re not bad. You’re just different. And so am I, in the same way. So that means you’re not really all that different after all. And you’re not going to need a doctor. You just need other witches and wizards. Now that you know about them—know what you are—everything is going to be much, much easier. Look at me. I promise you.” I point at myself. “I don’t make promises unless I mean them, so I almost never make them. A promise is a true thing, an unbreakable thing. I promise—knowing will make things better.” I smile crookedly. “At the least, you’ll probably break less glasses.”

            He sniffles. Good lord, that sleeve of his is now basically drenched in tears and snot. “Okay,” he whispers.

            “Okay?” I look to him, and he nods. Relieved, I deflate a little. “Okay. Excellent. Now—with your permission, of course—I would really like to get someone who can help you with this. To be perfectly honest, I’m just a regular wizard. I don’t really know all that much about people your age, or in your situation. But there are plenty of people who do know about it—“

            Panic sets in again on his face. “Would they take me away?”

            “No. Absolutely not. You’ll stay here, with your mother, and someone will just give you a few lessons and pointers and things on—you know, how not to destroy the house without meaning to.”

            “Cause—cause Mom said—one time—that if I was bad—people would take me away.”

            “Parents say plenty of things they don’t quite mean when they’re tired. Or when their child has set their room on fire.” I put a finger in front of my lips. “Don’t tell anyone, but that’s what I did when I was a child. Didn’t mean to, and all of a sudden—poof. Room on fire.” I give him as encouraging an expression as I can muster. “No one will take you away.”

            Dustin chews on his lip a moment. Then he looks at my sleeve. “Is—that--?”

            I take out my wand. “It certainly is.”

            “For—real? Like in the movies?”

            “Like in the movies.”

            “How do—will I get one?”

            “Well—when you’re eleven, if you are very lucky, you will go to what is arguably the best school in the entire world for magics. And in order to go there, you’ll have to have a wand. There’s only one decent place to get that, and I happen to know the owner.”

            “It—does spells and stuff? Like on TV?”

            American children. Everything filtered through a screen. “Well, I do the spells, but this directs them. You know how right now, you might—be angry, or upset about something, and something breaks? That’s because you don’t know how to channel your powers. At school, you learn how to do that—through this.”

            I raise my wand, and with a flick, send a white orb of light up into the air above us.

            It’s a ridiculously simple spell. Severus showed me how in my first year. He showed me how to cast nonverbal spells, long before the others had even considered it. But I look across the hall, to where the light shines off this tear-soaked boy’s face, and for a moment I remember that magic, after all, is still magic.

            With a tap at the air, I take the light back into my wand. “Easy as anything.”

            He looks at my wand with wide eyes. Blink, child. For God’s sake, blink. “Cool.”

            “I suppose it is.” Moment of truth. “Dustin—you know the night that your mother made you come over to my apartment to return my wallet?” He droops again, but I press on. “Did you—can you remember doing something? I think I grabbed your arm—which I shouldn’t have, and I am sorry. But I think that you might have done something, without meaning to.”

            His lower lip gets sucked up into his mouth. His thin little shoulders hunch in.

            It takes a long moment, but he admits, “I think so.”

            Finally. “Do you know what you did?”

            “Did—“ Oh fuck, tears are threatening again. “Did I hurt you—“

            “No. You didn’t hurt me. But you—did something that I didn’t exactly anticipate. You cast a rather strong spell that I—seemed to have sealed shut myself. This is going to sound ridiculous, because you’re eight and you’ve only just found out you’re a wizard, but—you wouldn’t have any ideas on how to reverse it, would you?”

            “Me?” he squeaks.

            I wave a hand. “I know—ignore me. Wishful thinking.”

            “What did—what did I do?”

            “Oh—every night, when I go to sleep, I share the same dream with a man that I find to be incredibly obnoxious. Can you imagine that? Do you have someone at school that you just—don’t like?”

            He thinks a moment, and then nods with absolute gravity.

            “Yes, well—imagine having to talk to that person every night when you go to sleep.” I pretend to gag, and that actually gets me the first smile I’ve ever seen from him. He doesn’t look that bad when he does. I just need him to use his eyelids more. How do his eyes not dry out? “But that’s just between you and me. I’m working on fixing it. You don’t have to worry about it.”

            “I did that?”

            “You did. So, just to prevent that from happening to anyone else—may I please get someone who is far better equipped to deal with this than I am? They’d be far nicer than I am too. I’m just being really nice right now because I don’t know what else to do. I’m not even nice at all. If you’ll let me, though, I’ll find someone who can help you. Would you let me do that, please?”

            He kneads his hands together. “They—won’t take me away?”

            “No.”

            “They—won’t hurt me?”

            “Absolutely not.”

            “Do—you promise?”

            I lean forward, and say, “I promise—if anyone tries to take you away or hurts you—“ I lift my wand. “This thing doesn’t just make lights. And like I said, I am not nice. If anyone hurts you or tries to take you away, I promise they’ll have me to reckon with.” I raise my brows. “Agreed?”

            Some more lip chewing. At last, though, he nods. “Okay.”

            Without draping myself against the wall in abject relief, I simply smile. “Okay.”


	15. Chapter 15

“A child,” Harry says.

            I’ve blushed, as I knew I would, during my recounting of the encounter with Dustin Moreno. Tucking my hair back behind my ear, I give a single nod.

            We’ve taken up our now usual positions. Sitting in the middle of this blank, luminous space, facing one another. Never any closer than six feet. I’m leaning back on my hands, thanks to the sitting phenomenon, which is as follows: if I sit with my legs crossed beneath myself, he’ll lean back as I am now. I’ve tested this on several occasions. He’ll be sitting normally, so I’ll go from a lounging position to a more up and down one. Back he’ll go, at a forty five degree angle. God forbid we face one another on even terrain, looking one another in the eyes as men.

            He runs a hand over his hair, making more of a mess of it than usual. This is extraordinary, considering the state of his normal bed head. “It’s not out of the realm of possibility, is it,” he says quietly.

            “I’m certain this time. I—“ Giving my eyes a rub, I say, “I’m not proud of myself, but I did grab him when his mother made him bring back the wallet. Probably scared the daylights out of him.”

            Harry snorts. “Why am I unsurprised? Draco Malfoy, accosting a mudblood child—“

            “Don’t fucking use that word,” I snap. “Not even in jest. I don’t care if you are the saviour of the wizarding world. Do it again, and I swear to God I’ll find Granger’s address and send her a very interesting letter. You might not care what I think, but she’d certainly give you an earful.”

            Harry’s watching me with raised brows. I don’t give a damn what he thinks. I’ll not have anyone use that word around me, any more than I’d stand for someone using a racial slur about one of my boys.

            “Anyways,” I bite off.

            “Awfully dangerous.” I look at him, and he clarifies, “Trying to muck about with any kind of magic a child has done.”

            “We couldn’t touch it,” I agree. “There would be two possible outcomes. Absolutely nothing—or we kill ourselves. Or Christ forbid him. Suppose that makes it three outcomes.”

            Harry clears his throat a bit, avoiding my eyes. “Years back—when I was still an Auror. I had a case. Muggle born girl. Six years old.”

            He bites his tongue. I can tell, he actually bites it, from the set of his stubborn jaw. “And?”

            “Suppose we were cleanup crew more than anything.”

            “How many?”

            “Three. Her, both parents.”

            “Fuck.”

            “Near as we could figure, she triggered a gas line. Whole house went up.” He sniffs, and says softly, “Ugly business.”

            “Well, my only hope is that I found this boy before any more damage is done.” I shake my head, picturing the possible destruction. “Last thing I bloody need is to be at ground zero for another Obscurial.”

            He’s giving me a look. What is it now? Does he know that story? Have I given away my location? Not that it matters. What’s the worst he does to me? Sends _The Daily Prophet_ to my doorstep? They can’t, not with the New York laws on magical journalism. Besides, he’d come out far more embarrassed on that one. ‘The Boy Who Lived Forced into Midnight Conversations with Former Childhood Enemy.’ I don’t live with magical kind. I wouldn’t have to deal with it.

            Harry takes a short, sharp breath through his nose, then he rolls his eyes. “All right, what’s an Obscurial?”

            I stare at him. Then, because _honestly_ , I say, “And you were an _Auror_?”

            “Yes, yes—“

            “Dumbledore’s favoured child—all you did with him, and you still don’t know what an Obscurial is?”

            “What’s that mean?”

            “It means you’re hopeless,” I mutter, putting a hand to my face.

            I hear a frustrated sigh. “You know—it drives me barmy, how you do that.”

            “Do what?”

            I look up when there’s no immediate reply. With some exasperation, Harry bursts out, “How you always— _know_.”

            Grinning, I say, “Obnoxious, isn’t it. Always been one of my most favourite qualities about myself.”

            “Well, at least it’s someone’s favourite thing about you.”

            “So we’re agreed at least that there’s not a great deal we can do about the boy. I’ll have to make a trip to the MACUSA tomorrow—which is always a _treat_ —and alert the children’s services branch.” I shrug. “Beyond that, you and I are in this until it’s run its course.”

            Harry scratches his stubble, then asks, “What’s it like?”

            “What?”

            “The MACUSA.”

            “Oh. Well—the branch near to where I am—it’s not England, where everyone’s based in London. That’s a terrible commute. But here, there’s a branch in most of the major cities. It’s—marginally less silly than the Ministry. Marginally, mind. I haven’t been to mine in—oh, three years? When I got my regular citizenship, I also had to do my citizenship there.”

            He looks aghast. “You—you’re an American citizen?”

            “Well, England didn’t fucking want me.”

            “It certainly didn’t, but— _America_.”

            “Snob.”

            “It’ll be the end of days when you’re not the snob between the two of us, Malfoy.”

            With a little laugh, I say, “My magical citizenship—that was a chore. You know me, I stay away from—our lot. I’d no desire to learn about the magical history of the States. It was certainly illuminating, I’ll give you that. But not so different from the British, in their way. Always some dark magic user trying to eat muggles alive and what have you. I had to show my proficiency in several distinctly American spells, swear my allegiance to the President and Governor both.”

            “What kind of spells?”

            Good lord, he actually looks interested. Thinking back, I say, “Oh—there’s _Aeetus Summonus_. That’s where you cast and a few seconds later a bald eagle will appear on your arm.”

            He blinks at me a few times.

            Then Harry Potter starts to laugh.

            I’m so astonished that I don’t know what to do. It’s not like I’m looking at the same man. His whole face lights up, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he bares his teeth.

            “Shut _up_ ,” he laughs, a hand to his stomach. “You’re lying.”

            Good heavens, maybe this is what people see in him. He’s actually quite nice looking when he isn’t being a complete ass. Not even _quite_. But _very_.

            For a second, I wonder what it would be like, to see him this way all the time.

            “I’m not,” I say, recovering. “If I’d my wand, I’d demonstrate—“

            Harry stops chuckling, abruptly. He looks like he’s been struck. “Merlin’s beard. I never even thought.”

            “You probably say that one out of twenty times for every time you should.”

            Harry gestures to his face. “My glasses—our _clothes_ —they come with us in here. Whatever we’re wearing, whatever we have on us, we can bring in. If one of us fell asleep with his wand—“ He stops again. I really wish he would stop it. I’m about to get whiplash. Harry leans forward, setting his hands on the floor. He’s studying me. I look back, unfazed. “You already thought of it, didn’t you.”

            Why the hell does he do that? Act like he has the mental capacity of a pile of turnips, and then all of a sudden he sees right through me like I’m nothing more than a pane of glass. “I had.”

            “Of course you had! And what? Did you bring it one time and I just didn’t notice?”

            “No. I never have.”

            Flabbergasted, Harry says, “Why the hell not?”

            “To be very blunt, I thought that on the off chance that wands were effective, I was concerned that you would harm me. And now—I believe we are agreed that to try and meddle with this magic would be detrimental to us and/or the child.”

            “You thought I’d hurt you?”

            With a bark, I respond, “You might not be this self-aware, but you’ve a tendency to come off rather aggressive. I assume more towards me than others. It must be nice to have an enemy again.”

            His eyes narrow. “And what’s that mean?”

            “It means I doubt you do much more out in that cottage than mope. It’s probably a relief to have a target.”

            Drawing himself up, Harry says, “I don’t mope. I do plenty.”

            “Do you?”

            “I—“

            But he stops himself. He tucks his legs further up under himself, brushing a non-existent fleck off his flannel pajama trousers. He is most carefully not looking at me.

            “Must be terrible, if you don’t want to say.”

            “It’s none of your business, is all.”

            “Fair. Probably better that I think you’re some sad, about to be thirty year old man who does nothing save moon about and relive his glory days.”

            Shaking his head, Harry sighs, “Please get fucked, Malfoy.”

            “That’s a kind sentiment. But usually I’m the one doing the fucking, love.” I click in my cheek, and give him a wink. Just to fucking rattle him.

            And I do. He looks confounded for a moment, before his cheeks blush deep and dark. He drops his face in his hands. “I did not need to know that,” Harry says, strained.

            “Well, one of us has to speak. You’re being rather cagey, to the point where you’d rather have me think you’re a shiftless layabout as opposed to interested in anything.”

            Harry wraps his arms around himself. He is still very flushed, eyes refusing to meet mine. Typical of straight men. Mention queer fuckery and they’re suddenly more easily scandalized than a maiden aunt.

            Reluctantly, Harry says, “I’ve—a hobby, is all.”

            “Would you care to tell me, or shall I guess?” He shifts, uncomfortable, so I sigh. “Fine. Hippogriff breeding. House elf fashions. Whittling—“

            “You’ve got me. I’ve the latest designs in clothing for house elfs. I knit tea cozies by the dozens.”

            “If you’re that intent on being secretive, I’ll tell you more about my sexual history—“

            He lifts both hands, repulsed, like he’s pressing them flat to glass. I bite back a smile. Harry braces himself, then says, “I’ve been…sort of…making a few…wands.”

            Now that gets my attention. “You’ve been studying to be a wandmaker?”

            “ _No_. It’s just a hobby. It’s something to—keep myself busy.”

            “If you make wands, you’re a wandmaker. And you’re telling me it only occurred to you now to bring a wand into this realm?”

            “I didn’t think of it, all right? I’m a prat. You’ve got me.”

            “Besides, just look at your glasses.”

            He frowns. “I didn’t fall asleep with my glasses tonight.”

            Patiently, I say, “No, but you still see just fine without them, don’t you. You don’t need your glasses here, so you see well enough. Unless you’ve been half blind all this time and too proud to say, which would not surprise me.”

            “No. No, I—“ Harry lets out another aggrieved sigh.

            “That didn’t occur to you either, did it.”

            “Not to shock you, Malfoy, but when I don’t have to be here, I try to think about it as little as possible.” He cocks his head at me. “Why? Do thoughts of me fill your daylight hours?”

            Standing my ground, I answer, “You’re my type, Harry, but after all, you’re still— _you_.” I wave a hand. “You were saying. Wands.”

            Harry shrugs. “They’re just—wands.”

            “They bloody well aren’t, and you know that. Tell me the story.”

            “The story of what?”

            “The story of your wands, and why you’re embarrassed to talk about them.”

            “I’m not embarrassed to—“ He looks at me, and then lets out an exasperated groan. He messes his hair up with both hands. “All right! Fine! Fine. I—after the—debacle with my career as an Auror, I decided to travel. So I did that, and—I lived here a while until that fell apart, then I—worked here and there for a few years. Never kept a job long. I don’t—it’s not easy. Being around people. I…remember what it was like. To be no one. It’s near twenty years now, but I still remember, and sometimes…it would be very nice if it was that way again. But it’s not, and no use crying over it. I’d stay at a job for six months? A year? Three weeks once, but that was just off Diagon. Terrible idea. I went to work with George at Wheezes for a while. That didn’t work out either. People came in just to look at me. Traffic was up, but sales went down. I’m sort of a…one man walking freak show.” Scratching at his wrist, Harry murmurs, “So I decided to just…go somewhere a while. Away from everyone.”

            Strange that I ask him for the story about his wands, and he finally tells me what the hell he’s been up to these last few years. “How long ago is that?”

            “Three years,” he says, and he does look a bit shame faced about it.

            “So you went mad from boredom and thought you’d try your hand at one of the most delicate of the arcane wizarding arts.”

            “No—“ He stops himself, then snorts. “Yes. Actually, that is—bang on.” He leans back on his hands, and I suppose I could sit up now, but I like the symmetry of this. “I was out here—about half a year? Reading—going off to visit the Weasleys here and there—my other friends—don’t make that fucking face, Malfoy, they _are_ my friends.”

            “I’m not making a face because they’re not your friends, I’m making a face because they’re the same friends you’ve had since you wore size 3 trainers.”

            “Anyways—yes, after about six months of that, I was going a bit—stir crazy, I guess. I’m not one for the quiet.” He glances at me. “I suppose you’d know about that.”

            I wouldn’t, actually. Unless I put up a charm, Williamsburg is _never_ quiet—oh. Oh, he’s talking about my incarceration. I’m surprised he remembers enough about my feelings on the subject. “I would,” I say neutrally.

            “Then one day I get _The Prophet_ , and blessedly I am not front page news. But Ollivander had died. He hadn’t been seen in the shop itself for years. People said he sometimes worked out of the back, but he had two apprentices that did the work out front. I’d heard that he was ill—never recovered entirely from the manor. When he did die, though—the whole of Britain was shocked. He’d been the wandmaker for—forty years? More? People—you know how they believe that things will always continue the same way they always are. They never really think that things could change.”

            I could point out how remarkably astute that is of him. I could point out how guilty he is of the same, believing that he’s trapped in his current condition. Instead, I just say, “Mm hm.”

            “Ollivander—he was a strange one. Even for us. From start to finish, I could never tell—if I liked him or not. Any time I went one way or the other, he’d do something to bump me back in the other direction. When he died, he left no clear instructions about the shop. So the one apprentice, he said, I’m the wandmaker now, I’ve been here the longest. And the other, she said, no, I’m the wandmaker, Ollivander told me so in a verbal agreement. So the two of them, they’ve been tied up in court ever since over the contents of the shop. Both opened their own stores in the meantime, but everything at Ollivander’s has been impounded. No one can go in or out, take anything. There was a panic. How will witches and wizards get their wands? The two of them, they were each starting from scratch. Ollivander—you saw that place. He had thousands of wands. So there was this fear that just went straight across the whole of the Isles, and people reacted all kinds of ways. Putting themselves on wait lists for either apprentice. The ones who could afford it went to the Continent, but it was still frowned upon. Oh, you know what it’s like.”

            “The only proper wand is an English wand. Yes, well—as the proud owner of an American wand, allow me to say, it’s absolute nonsense.”

            “Traitor,” Harry says with a straight face, and I smother a grin. “Even heard stories of pureblood families opening up their crypts and taking the wands out of their dead ancestors’ hands.”

            “That’s just pragmatism.”

            “It’s ghoulish. Not to say I don’t expect that from you. But also—it kind of started to pop up that—people were interested in making their own wands.”

            “Oh, that must have gone _swimmingly_. DIY wands.” I’ve seen what happens when twenty somethings decide to brew their own alcohol. I can’t imagine what happened when a bunch of ridiculous witches and wizards decided to make their own implements of magic.

            Harry admits, “It was a bit of a disaster. Stories popping up here and there about people who’d blown fingers off, spells gone wrong—one woman turned her local Tesco into a bouncy castle when she meant to change the price on a can of beans.” A single laughs breaks loose from me, and I turn it into a cough, putting a fist to my mouth. Harry smiles again. That unfair smile. “I know, we are—at times, we are ridiculous. So after a few months, the Ministry cracked down. No selling wands unless you’re registered and pass a fairly rigorous set of standards.”          

            “But rules don’t apply to you, of course.”

            He rolls his eyes, dramatic as always. “Well, they don’t in this case, because I’m not selling them, am I.”

            “So—one day you just decided—‘Wands. That’s what I’m missing.’”

            “No, I—fuck it, I’ll tell you the story, because you’re practically a magic exile in your own right, and who are you going to tell? One night, I was a little drunk, and I ended up outside, just—wandering about. Having a walk. This was, oh, two months after Ollivander died. I was walking down the lane, and a storm had blown the branches from some of the trees across the road. I saw one, and—remember, I was rather hammered, and I thought it looked a lot like a wand. Perfect size, length. I picked it up, and had a laugh about it because it was just one of those things you find funny when you’re drunk. God only knows why. I went home and I woke up the next morning, terrible hangover, and I see this branch just on my bedside table. And instead of being embarrassed about it—as I recognize I probably should have been—I had a look at it, and I just thought—“ Harry raises his shoulders, pressing his lips together. “I wonder.”

            “Were people blowing their limbs off by this point?”

            “Not quite yet. Funny little stories had started to pop up. More like, look at this new trend. Honestly, I didn’t even know if I was taking it seriously or not. I just found myself in need of distraction. So I went up to Edinburgh, Polyjuiced, and went into McNeish’s, and bought myself a few books. But they weren’t all that good, really. Even when I was buying them, I could tell. Almost no one had an interest in wand making because they thought Ollivander would live forever. The books—they were rushed out. Well, I went down the street to this used bookstore on Cragsthorough—do you know Cragsthorough?”

            “Haven’t had the pleasure.”

            “It’s their Knockturn, honestly, just off the end of Mayfair Street. The store was a little dodgy—“ He gives me the eye. “Certainly not a Borgin and Burke’s. But I found this old, old book, in French. Cover barely on it. My French is—well, frankly I understand more of Mermish. But there was a wand on the cover, and when I flipped through, I could see all these diagrams inside on the actual construction of wands. I thought, what the hell, and bought it, and took it back home.”

            “And then you learned French.”

            “Don’t be stupid, I put a translation charm on it.”

            “Oh, of course, why do things the proper way.”

            Harry casts me a sideways glance, but he continues. “It’s really quite something. Thirteenth century, a memoir and manual written by this—as it turns out—relatively famous wandmaker named Celeste Roy, and it’s brilliant, it truly is. And I started to—follow along, I suppose. It was completely above my head at first—I went around without eyelashes for about two months, and no one could figure out what I’d done to my face—and I put a few holes through the kitchen wall before I made the shed out back into a workshop. That’s plenty reinforced now, and I haven’t destroyed it in—oh, close to a year.”

            “So you actually…make functioning wands.”

            “Don’t sound so shocked. I’m not completely useless.”

            I draw myself up, crossing my arms. “That’s actually—that is fascinating.” I snap my fingers. “Get that look off your face, I’m not being facetious. Wandmaking is such an intricate art. I mean, with your infamous lack of subtlety or forethought, I’m shocked you’ve not killed yourself, but the practice is actually very interesting.”

            “What do you know about wandmaking?”

            “Well—“ I stop myself. I almost said her name. This is not good. This is getting to be close to an actual conversation, and when those happen, guards are lowered. Pulling myself in a little, I imagine a wall between he and I. I want out of this situation, yes, but I don’t—need him to know everything. That’s just not the way I am. “The wandmaker I’ve dealt with—she gave me a book one year for my birthday. She’s rather intent on getting me to rejoin magical society. I knew that if I saw her again, she’d ask about it, and I’d reap the consequences if I’d not read it. I read it. And—yes, it was endlessly fascinating. Even for me.”

            “How do you mean, even for you?” I frown, and Harry specifies, “As someone who doesn’t care about wands or someone who hates magic?”

            My eyes might roll clear out of my sockets. “I do _not_ hate magic. I think that magic kind is ridiculous and short sighted and that they use magic as a crutch, while pretending it makes them so superior to regular people. What I meant was, it was interesting for me as a person who has no desire to learn anything else about magic.”

            “How—do you live like that?”

            “Like—a normal person? I don’t understand the question.”

            “Do you just never use magic? You have a wand, so—what do you actually do?”

            Sighing, I answer, “I rarely use my wand. I keep it on me for security purposes. Like when Nines tried to shoot me in the face when I came to collect Demetrius. But on average, I use it outside the house—once a week? In the house, I might use it if I’m lazy, but most of the time I put it away as soon as I get home. I prefer to do things on my own.”

            “And you don’t see the hypocrisy in that?”

            I arch a brow. “Beg pardon?”

            Harry sits up, and of course now of all times we’re on level playing field. “You told two boys today how normal magic was. That it wasn’t a curse, that it was just something that some people possess.”

            “Don’t be so _naïve_. I told a panicking normal what he needed to hear so that he didn’t spend the rest of his life terrified of his little sister, and I told a nine year old regular born what he needed to hear so that he didn’t blow up my apartment. Magic is—magic is neutral. In and of itself, it is neutral. But people abuse it. Everyone does. I do, and I rarely use it. I keep my hands off it as much as I’m able so that I don’t back pedal into bad behaviours. Not that I would, but better to not pretend that I’m an entirely different person than I used to be. Sadly, Malfoy DNA runs deep in these veins.”

            Harry says, “Do you ever think that maybe you’re scared of losing it again?”

            I don’t know how to respond to that. I’m not even sure what he means. “Sorry?”

            “After all those years without magic—without a wand—do you think that you stay away from it because you worry about how difficult it would be? If you lost it again?”

            I look at him a moment, then I smile a bit. “Excellent effort at psychoanalyzing me, Harry, but alas. No. If it came down to it—if I was told I couldn’t use a wand again—I wouldn’t be all that bothered. So long as I can apparate and cut down on my commute, that’s really all I care about. Even that—convenience. Not necessity.”

            He looks to be thinking. Steady, Draco. Don’t constantly be sniping internally about how it must be like a calf on new legs—

            “I was there, you know.”

            Furrowing my brows, I inquire, “Where?”

            He seems to regret speaking for a moment. But then he looks me in the eyes. “Your release. The Wizengamot. I was in the back gallery.”

            I gaze at him. “I—don’t recall seeing you there.”

            “You didn’t look up. You just walked in, spoke to the Wizengamot—did what you did—and went back out again. The gallery was only open to Ministry officials. I was in my last month of being a desk jockey. I wanted to see—“ He stops, then shrugs. “I don’t know.”

            “If I’d been suitably broken? Must have been a bit of a shock that I wasn’t.”

            “That—was not exactly the part that shocked me.”

            I smirk. “No. Don’t suppose it was. Didn’t give it the due reverence, did I.” I shrug, unfazed. “It was just a thing. And it would have held me back.”

            “You really don’t care, do you,” Harry says, and I might be flattering myself—I’m most likely flattering myself—but I could swear I hear some amazement in his voice.

            “I really don’t,” I agree.

            He opens his mouth to speak again, but grimaces. “What in the hell is—“ He looks back over his shoulder, and stands up.

            “Something waking you up?”

            Harry puts a hand on the back of his hip, and sticks the other hand in his hair. “He’s not—he is. Merlin’s beard, it is far too early for—“ He looks back at me, and lets out an aggrieved sigh. “It’s my—“

           

It’s his something. All right.

            Like I usually do when I wake up, I reach over for my phone. I always check the time. Usually it’s around three.

            And today is no different. 3:04. I don’t have to be up for hours and hours. I have to be at work for ten, but then I’ll have two days off, because it’s—

            Saturday.

            I look at the phone. It’s Saturday, July 31.

            “Happy Birthday, Harry,” I say to the empty room.


	16. Chapter 16

The first time I went to the Brooklyn Museum, I was twenty five, and things did not go according to plan. Then again, they rarely do.

            At the time, we spent plenty of time outside work with Frances, who’d just had her own shop go under. No head for the books, just for the art. She made these beautiful tattoo machines that we still have displayed on the walls of the studio. She would hop around from shop to shop, and everything would be good a while, but then she’d wear out her welcome by getting into a fight with someone, and she’d never apologize, and she’d never let a thing go. She was in our lives that time for about a year, before getting in a ridiculous spat with Jason, and she was gone again.

            Sometimes that happens. People come, people go.

            But it was because of her that I ended up at the museum, by myself, on a Thursday afternoon in August. She was absolutely gobsmacked by how little I knew about the history of feminism. I mean, Margritte had given me a solid grounding in the theory, but I knew more about the British side of things, for obvious reasons. It wasn’t a topic I thought a lot on—sexism isn’t exactly an issue in the magical world. There were female Ministers of Magic going back as far as the records existed, and plenty of female witches who had vied for the position of most evil magics of all time. In my present life, I thought about racism far more than sexism, though both had not been a part of my world back home. After all, I saw what so many of my boys were exposed to every day, how that form of bigotry had shaped so many aspects of their lives.

            Frances was practically livid when she discovered the gaps in my learning. She had a huge tattoo across her chest that read ‘Lavender Menace’ and she started reeling off names that had no relevance to me, from Sojourner Truth to Sylvia Rivera as I just looked at her blankly. “This isn’t just women’s history, Draco, it’s the history of the _world_.” She started to furiously write down all the things I needed to do and see to be, as she put it, “a better person.” As that’s a thing I’m deeply invested in, I followed her list.

            That’s how I came to be at the Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art, looking at a huge triangular table and trying to look as deeply engrossed as many of the other patrons.

            Frances hadn’t said _why_ I should see ‘The Dinner Party,’ she just said that I needed to _experience_ it, then give her my impressions. So I had my little guide for the building in my hands, walking slowly along the procession around the table.

            I definitely had some impressions, but I wasn’t sure if they were the right ones. I couldn’t help but imagine what my mother would say if she saw these place settings. She would raise a sharp brow, say, “Interesting,” and keep her opinion to herself until we were alone. Then she would probably sigh, “Muggles have _no_ appreciation for subtlety.”

            But I respected that this wasn’t really a place for me, that I was a guest, and just walked around the table, taking a close look at the tapestries and such. I could appreciate that, even if I wasn’t having the cathartic experience that some of the other museum goers were clearly having.

            With the impression that I’d have to do some further reading so as not to infuriate Frances, who by that point I was highly aware had a hair trigger, I left the room, going out into the hallway. I opened up the guide, looking for anything that I might find a little more to my tastes, or at least my understanding.

            After a moment, though, I had the strangest feeling. Someone was watching at me. I could tell.

            So I looked up.

            Wasn’t difficult to find him. Standing about twenty feet from me, staring straight at me with wide eyes, was Neville Longbottom.

            I gazed back at him a moment, frozen.

            I’d never encountered anyone from back home before. I stayed away from Samatchin, which was where magic tourists always went. Of course, they sometimes went to the regular tourist destinations, which was why I had stayed away from things like museums and the Empire State Building and the like, but after three years’ safety I had become complacent.

            Now, here he was. Real as life.

            _You have to fucking do something, Draco_.

            So I drew myself up, pushed down any doubt I might have felt, and crossed the floor to him.

            When he saw me walking right at him, he very visibly panicked. I’d not seen the man in seven years, and I could not remember him being so tall. He was at least my height, if not taller. He still had hints of that round face that had marked him as the weakest of the herd from a young age, but it had settled into something oblong and actually quite handsome. He was dressed well, light hair carefully cut and styled in a way I would not have thought possible of him. Obviously, Neville Longbottom had turned out quite all right. But at the sight of me, he gripped his guide in both hands and started to glance a bit frantically from side to side. When I was ten feet from him, he opened the guide up, gazing into it almost manically, as if the answers for how to avoid me were inside.

            However, there were none to be found, and I planted myself about three feet in front of him. No way to avoid me. He swallowed, then looked at me from under his brows, face strained.

            _Nothing for it_. I stuck out my hand. “Hello, Neville.”

            His jaw actually dropped. He looked from my face to my hand a total of three times before slowly reaching out to take my hand. His hand was larger than mine, calloused from work. He tripped over, “M-Dra-foy.”

            When I let go, Neville quickly withdrew his hand. “Draco is preferable, if you don’t mind. But I understand if it’s more comfortable for you to call me by my last name. I never afforded you the courtesy of calling you by your first name, so I understand if you don’t care to extend that to me.”

            I started to worry that his hazel eyes might come right out of his head. His mouth finally clamped shut. “Right,” Neville said faintly.

            I might not have shown it, but inwardly I was flailing. I had never done this before. I’d abandoned England before I could have any contact with my former classmates. Of course, of everyone, it had to be Neville. The only one who could have been worse would have been Harry Potter himself.

            For lack of anything better, I said, “What brings you to the museum?”

            He seemed simultaneously relieved to have a topic of conversation and in the midst of a bout of extreme nausea. “We’re visiting, and ah—Gin asked me to come have a look. See if it was worth coming to.”

            I nodded back over my shoulder. “’The Dinner Party’?”

            “The museum in general. She’s terribly busy, and I suppose I’m doing some scouting while I’m not—looking at plant shops?” His face screwed up at the end. Like he didn’t know what in the hell to expect.

            “Gin—that’s your—wife? Girlfriend?”

            He blinked at me a few times. “Ginny. Ginny Weasley.”

            It was my turn for surprise—well, beyond the initial shock of seeing Neville Longbottom in the middle of _Brooklyn_ , of all places. “You and Ginny Weasley?” He gave a quick little nod, hands clutching his guide and leaning back from me, almost as if he was expecting a blow. With complete honesty, I said, “Fair play, Neville. Well done.”

            His head pushed forward a bit, like he needed his ears closer. Like he needed confirmation of what he’d just heard. A little dazed, Neville cleared his throat, and asked, “And you? What—brings you here?”

            “I live here. Not—at the museum ‘here.’ But Brooklyn. I live here.”

            “Oh.”

            “I’ve never been and I’ve a friend who’s horrified that I hadn’t seen the table.”

            “How is—the table?”

            I shrugged. “Honestly, I think as a man I’m obviously missing something, but there’s a noticeable absence of women of colour, particularly in the second and third wing, not to mention queer women, so I’m not sure exactly how I’m supposed to respond when my friend asks how deeply it affected me. I may have to lie through my teeth and say I was transformed or something.”

            “Right.”

            A moment went by, and neither of us said a thing. I realized that I was going to have to take the lead. “Shall we have a seat?” I asked.

            “All right,” Neville said, still sounding a little confounded.

            We went over to a bench that had been recently vacated, and sat down. He was still holding his guide in both hands. I put mine down in the space between us, which wasn’t that wide, actually. I had expected him to sit as far from me as possible, but he had simply sat down, and so had I.

            A moment passed, and I did what I usually did when the going gets tough. I pushed up my sleeves to my elbow, and settled in.

            “Well,” I said. “This is exceedingly awkward.”

            “Yeah.”

            I tucked some of my hair back behind my ear. At the time, it was still long, past my shoulders, but I’d pulled it into a messy bun on top of my head. I had to stop myself from fiddling with it. It would have been easier to fidget than to face this man.

            But that would be the coward’s way out.

            “Listen, Neville—I’m certainly aware that on the list of people you’d least like to have a conversation with, I’ve probably secured myself a slot, so I won’t keep you. And I won’t ask for your forgiveness, because I know some things cannot—and should not—be forgiven. Nonetheless, I will tell you that I am sorry. For everything I ever did to you. For everything I did to everyone else. I’m not the person I was ten years ago, and I’m well aware you likely won’t believe that, and that is perfectly fine. On the off chance that an apology would mean something to you, though, I offer it. Unreservedly.”

            The silence was actually painful.

            At last, I pointed in the general direction of _away_. “Would you like me to piss off now?”

            He seemed to shake himself awake at that. “No, just—blimey.”

            “I know. Draco Malfoy apologizes and means it. I imagine you expect the earth to swallow you whole next.”

            Neville looked down at the ground. “It seems a very real possibility.”

            I laughed a little, just because I needed to break some of the tension. He glanced at me, and I stopped. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to laugh in front of him. It seems a strange thought, but the whole situation was bizarre.

            He glanced down at my arm. At that point, I only had a three quarter sleeve on my left arm.

            Not afraid to address the topic, I turned my forearm over. “Before you ask, it’s not that I can’t tattoo over it. I keep it a blank as a reminder of the sheer dangerous stupidity I engaged in.” For want of anything else to say, I asked, “Do you have any tattoos?”

            “Me?” Neville said, and for the first time there was a bit of a smile on his mouth. “No. I mean, Ginny would—“ He clammed up, ears turning pink.

            “Be cross or overjoyed?”

            He burst out laughing, then he put a hand to the side of his face. “How are we having this conversation?” Neville asked in disbelief.

            “That we’re speaking or that I’m asking if Ginny Weasley would want you to have a tattoo?” I glanced at his hair. “Suppose she explains the hair. Not to stereotype, but I didn’t think you’d be capable of that on your own.”

            “Oh—yeah, she keeps me from—being hopeless, I suppose.”

            “How long have you been together?”

            “Four years.”

            “That’s excellent. Congratulations to the both of you. She’s here on—business?”

            “Yeah, with the team.” He seemed to think I’d know what that meant, but I merely shrugged, blank. “The Harpies. They’re doing an exhibition match with the American team. You know.”

            “I honestly don’t. I don’t have anything to do with the magical community here.”

            “You what?”

            “Brace yourself. I only deal with muggles.”

            He stared at me, then said, “Fuck off!”

            People around us paused to glare. Neville went red all the way down to his collar. I snickered a little. He rubbed a hand over his face, muttering to himself.

            “I live with muggles, I work with muggles, I fuck muggles, and I have fuck all to do with the magical world. I’ve had enough of that madness for a lifetime.”

            “For—real?”

            “God yes. Ginny—plays for the Harpies?”

            Neville brightened. “She does. Seeker. She’s brilliant. Robbed of player of the year this go around. She’ll get them next year.”

            “Good on her. And you? What do you do?”

            “Oh, I—I’ve a shop.”

            “Herbologist, I’m guessing. That was your expertise, if I recall.”

            Neville tilted his head. “How do you recall anything besides tormenting me for years?”

            “For lack of a better analogy, the hunter tends to study his prey. Honestly, if you would like for me to get down on my knees as I make an abject apology for that, it wouldn’t be an issue—“           

            “Merlin’s beard, no. This is—peculiar enough.”

            “Oh good. These are new trousers, and I don’t particularly relish the thought of kneeling on these floors. So—you’re a herbologist.”

            “I—am. What do—you do?”

            “I work at a tattoo shop here in Brooklyn—not doing the tattooing, I work the desk—and then I work out in the Bronx too, working with at-risk boys.”

            Neville simply said, “Oh.”

            “I’ve some—minor experience dealing with teenagers who think their issues can be solved with violence.”

            “I’ll say,” he barked. “How’d you—how’d you get into that?”

            And so I told him. I told him about Jason, and Derrell, and my boys, and the center, and Ty and Roderick, and how Ty was only two weeks from starting at Columbia. I told him about the one I’d lost—Enrique—and the ones who stayed in touch, and those who didn’t. I told him about the first time a teenage boy pointed a gun at me. I told him how that teenage boy had just been promoted to manager at a McDonald’s. I told him all kinds of things.

            I spoke until I didn’t know what to say anymore, because he had just been quiet, watching me the whole while with a curious expression on his face. He didn’t look disgusted by me, or frightened. Just—curious.

            Finally, I said, “You really should tell me to shut up. I’m only going on like this because I’m nervous and don’t know what to do.”

            Neville sat back. “I’m just—listening.”

            “I can see that. Is there—anything—you’d like to say? I can take it. God knows I can take it. If you need to scream at me, we can go somewhere and you could do that.”

            “No. No, that’s not really—“ He gave a little smile. “Not my style.”

            “No. It never was. I feel rather stupid at how deeply I underestimated you over the years.”

            Neville passed a hand over his head, then leaned a little closer. “I’ll let you in on something.” He lowered his voice, and said with no small measure of pride, “Everyone underestimated me over the years.”

            I smiled at that. “You’re being incredibly gracious right now, and I’m not entirely sure how to take it.”

            He took a deep breath. His death grip on the guide had loosened considerably. He shook it a bit absentmindedly as he looked around at the patrons. “I’ve a question for you.”

            “Anything.”

            “About the time you up and vanished, someone sent my parents two blankets. Gryffindor colours. No name on them. Beautiful things. My mother—she still won’t go anywhere without hers. I thought it was—someone from our house.” He looked me right in the eyes. “It never occurred to me until now, but—was that you?”

            I could see from his expression that my flushed face had already given me away. I swallowed lightly, then said, a bit strangled, “I hope that the—point of origin doesn’t—taint the gift itself.”

            “I told you—my mother loves hers. Dad, he—sometimes he kind of makes a nest of his.” Neville nodded, then said, “Thank you, Draco.”

            All of a sudden, I found myself about to cry. My throat constricted, and my eyes felt sharp. I pressed my lips together, staring resolutely at the floor.

            A few seconds passed, and Neville asked cautiously, “Are you all right?”

            I was such a terrible fuck up. This man was asking me if _I_ was all right. I’d never be that decent. I’d never make up for the things I’d done, not really—

            “Please don’t ever—thank me,” I said tightly. “I don’t—I certainly don’t deserve—“ I let out a frustrated sigh, and gave my head a hard shake, forcing myself back together. “I’m an utter child sometimes. I apologize.” I stood up, taking my guide. “I’ve taken up too much of your time as it is. Thank you for your patience.”

            Neville looked up at me, surprised again, but it wasn’t tempered by panic anymore. “It wasn’t anything.”

            “That you think that says volumes about your character.” I frowned, realizing that I was the one playing with my guide now, rolling it up. “I know you’ve no reason to grant me this, but—I’ve worked very hard to be better than I was. To build a life that’s not anything like the one I had before. I don’t want anything to do with England. With the wizarding world. I understand if you want to tell people that you saw me, and there’s no hard feelings on my part if you do. But I would appreciate it if you didn’t.” I bowed my head, out of habit. “Good afternoon.”

            I’d turned and taken about four steps when Neville called out, “Malfoy—Draco, wait.” I grimaced, staying in place as he got up and came over to me. He stood in front of me, hands in his pockets. His guide left on the bench. Neville raised his shoulders, and all I could see on his face was kindness. Not a trace of the little boy I used to terrorize. “I believe people can change,” he said. “I can’t speak for the rest of the world, but—you and me, we’re fine.” He thrust his hand out at me. “Forgiven.”

            I gazed at his hand a moment. Then I blinked, and said, “Christ, I completely forgot what I was supposed to do.” I took his hand, and let him shake it.

            Neville looked at me with something close to sympathy. “The world’s difficult enough without assuming the worst in people. Never saw the point in that.” He let me go, putting his hand back in his pocket, a small smile on his face. It was a smile that said, _nothing is forgotten. But it is forgiven_.

            I tossed up my hands, and said, “I’m leaving before I bloody _hug_ you, Longbottom,” and off I went.

 

We leave the room, and I say, “So what did you think?”

            Evan is a bit pink. “Uh….”

            “I know. Vaginas _everywhere_.”          

            He goes quite red at that, but he’s sixteen. Of course he turns red when someone says the word ‘vagina.’ I probably would have too, and I’m gay as fuck.

            “Everyone should see ‘The Dinner Party,’” I tell him, and I lead him to the same bench that Neville Longbottom and I sat on five years ago. We sit down, and I cross my legs at the knees. “Even if it is, of course, deeply problematic.”

            “How is it…uh…problematic?”

            “Well, even taking into account the 999 names on the Heritage Floor, there’s a noticeable lack of Asian women. The only ones who even made it onto the table are ancient goddesses. Like Asian women are mythical creatures or something. Not to mention Pacific Islander women. African women. Trans women. Queer women.” A white woman in her early twenties passing by gives me a dirty look, and I say to her, “That’s right, I said it. It’s exclusionary, heterosexist, cissexist—“ She keeps walking, and I turn back to Evan. “Don’t ever do that. It’s dreadfully rude to tell a woman what is and isn’t feminist. I’m just a terrible person. You need to be better than I am.”

            “I don’t really—know about that stuff.”

            “Do you believe that men and women are equal? Remember, there’s the right answer and the answer that’ll have me clipping you across the back of your head.”

            Evan says, “I believe men and woman are equal.”

            “Good. Then, congratulations, you’re a feminist. Don’t shy away from the word. Only cowards and bigots hate that word. And you and I will refuse to be either.”

            It’s Monday, and he’s taken the train all the way out here. I mentioned the museum the other week, and I could see something in his eyes light up. That’s fairly rare, so I pressed him on the topic. Apparently there’s an exhibition of architectural drawings that he was interested in, but his mother wasn’t keen to let him travel between boroughs. I said I’d look after him, so here I am, spending one of my afternoons off with Evan in a museum. I suppose I took him to ‘The Dinner Party’ just because I like to see people’s reactions to it.

            We’ve been to every floor, but had to skip ‘The Dinner Party’ the first time around because it was so crowded. Tourists. Even on a Monday afternoon, the place is busy. Good on them. I do like the museum when it’s quiet, but they certainly wouldn’t stay open if it was that way all the time.

             “You liked the sketches?”

            “Which ones?”

            “The ones we came here for.”

            “Oh! Yeah. Yeah, I really liked the James Hubbell ones.”

            Thinking, I make a gesture. “The sort of—swoopy—?”

            Evan nods. “Yeah.”

            “Mm.” A little eccentric for my tastes. There was almost a magical architecture feel to them. I wonder if the man’s a wizard. He’s certainly not hiding it well if he is. “Your work’s a little more—“

            As I’m searching for the word, Evan mumbles, “Boring.”

            “No,” I’m quick to say. “Sane. I prefer your work to—that kind of thing, frankly. I like things that make sense. I want to live in a house, not an icosahedron.”

            He snorts, then bites into his mouth. Like he shouldn’t laugh. Like it’s not a thing he’s allowed.

            I reach out with my elbow, giving him a nudge. “The world doesn’t end if you find a thing funny.”

            “I guess.”

            “Especially if they’re my jokes. I like when people think I’m funny.”

            I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. In fact, he puts his head down, and kind of contracts, like his oversized hoodie is a cave. I haven’t the faintest idea what I’ve said to warrant this reaction.

            “Something wrong?” I question.

            I can see him moving his mouth around. Like he’s moving his spit from side to side. Attractive. “You don’t have to pretend,” Evan mumbles.

            Narrowing my eyes, I respond, “Pretend what?”

            “Pretend to like me. I know you don’t.” I’m unsure how to reply to that. I really am. Evan continues, “You just…do this because you think that if I’m not around people all the time I’m gonna hurt someone.”

            Well, fuck. It’s not like he’s entirely wrong. He’s not entirely right, but he’s not entirely wrong.

            I default into professional mode. “First off—thank you for being honest with me. I didn’t know you thought I felt that way, so I’m glad you felt like you can tell me that. Even if it misses the mark a bit.”

            The boy makes himself smaller. “I’m right,” he says, even quieter.

            I mess up my hair, before pushing it back one handed. With a sigh, I say, “Evan—it’s not a matter of liking you or disliking you. I like a lot of things about you. I like that—you’re passionate about architecture, and that you’re very accommodating, especially to the people who want to help, and you’re always exceedingly polite. Those aren’t the only things I like. There is a much longer list, and I’ll go through it if you’d like me to. But I won’t lie to you. I told you I wouldn’t lie to you. There are things I dislike about you, and you know what they are.”

            He brings his shoulder up high, so they’re practically level with his chin. Barely above a whisper, Evan says, “I remind you of what you used to be like.”

            I pause. Oh boy. “Yeah. I know it’s not fair, but it does colour how I look at you a bit. I’m sorry.”

            “How’d you….”

            I tilt my head, trying to catch his eyes, which doesn’t work. “How’d I what?”

            “How’d you stop being….” He gulps. “Such a freak?”

            They break my heart sometimes. They do. Even the ones who scare me shitless. “I had to be arrested. I had to go through four long years of house arrest and some pretty intense rehabilitation before I was anything resembling a functioning human being.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. I keep my voice low so that no one around us can listen in. “I know I’m supposed to tell you that you’re not a freak. Or that even if you are a freak, there’s nothing wrong with that. But you know—and I know—that’s not the truth. And that’s not the way the world works. People like you and I—they reach a point where the pain and embarrassment becomes so great that they channel all that rage and entitlement inwards, and they overflow with it, and they explode, and they hurt people. They kill people. That’s not normal. It’s dangerous. I used to be dangerous, and maybe I still am a little, but I’ve worked very hard not to be. I think that—you are dangerous, but you don’t want to be. And that is very, very encouraging.”

            “I can’t….”

            “Can’t what?”

            He peeks at me from the side of his eyes. “I can’t believe you said it.”

            “Which part?” 

            “That…that I’m…a freak.”

            “ _We’re_ freaks,” I remind him. “And I’m not saying it to hurt your feelings. I’m honestly not. I just don’t think there’s any way to be better unless you face the worst in yourself and try to move forward from it.” Drooping, I shake my head. “Your therapist is going to kill me when she finds out I’ve said this to you.”

            “I’m not gonna…tell her.”

            “You should tell her everything. Listen—I don’t spend this time with you because I think you need supervision every hour of the day. If I really thought you needed supervision every hour of the day, I would have gone to the police, and that would have taken care of it quite neatly.” I still might. “I spend this time with you because—when I was in your place, no one made the effort, save one man, who I wouldn’t listen to. And people _did_ get hurt. I can’t change that bit about myself. It’s just something I’ll always have to live with. But it means that I know what can be done to help you. I want to prevent you from having to—carry this guilt that I have to carry until I die.” I lean over. “Evan, I don’t spend my time on hopeless cases. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think that you can come back from this.”

            “What if…what if I can’t? What if…this is it?”

            “It’s not,” I say firmly. “It absolutely is _not_.”

            “Just because you didn’t do things right doesn’t mean I can be—saved or whatever.”

            “No. It just means that I’ve a better chance of understanding you than the others. I’m not saying they don’t want to help. They do. Badly. As do I. I just have slightly different motivations than them.”

            “Who’d you hurt?”

            I inhale through my nose. He’s asked before, and I’ve avoided it. I don’t want to give him any ideas. “I crippled a girl. When I was your age. When I was sixteen. Crippled her for life. There was a woman—there were others.”

            “Did it…feel good when you did it?”

            “No,” I lie. At first it did. That went away rather quickly. “It felt disgusting, and I hated myself even more than I had before. And when I say that you and I were a lot alike, we also have some very distinct differences. I was actually the school bully.”

            “What?”

            “Oh yes. Imagine—oh, who’s the prick in your year? Ah—Emmett Brownley. I was the Emmett Brownley of my school. Played sports, doted on by some teachers, loathed by others—people clamoured to be my friend and others would have literally cut my throat if given the chance. Imagine that, and add murderous entitlement and rage to the mix, and that’s the kind of bastard I was at your age. You’re already considerably better off than I am. You’ve never yielded to those kinds of impulses at least.”

            “I’m not really good at sports.”

            I check. I think he might be making a joke. “Nonetheless. You are a nice boy, Evan. You’re just—well, a bit crazy at the moment. That’s not very polite of me to say, but—again, I’m an awful person.”

            He thinks a few seconds. “Everyone else lies. You don’t.”

            “They’re not all lying. They’re just kinder than I am.”

            “They lie,” he says quietly.

            He is still very much a work in progress, and I wonder if I’ve done more harm than good. For lack of anything better, I ask, “Are you going to kill anyone today?”

            Evan gives me an offended look. “No.”

            “Sorry. Had to ask. Don’t be so thin skinned. I know I’ve said this before, but if you do ever get the urge to hurt someone—and that includes yourself—you’ll call me straight away, won’t you? I don’t care what time it is. Promise that you’ll call me.”

            Evan looks at me. “You don’t like promises.”

            “Because most people lie when they make them. I don’t lie to you, so I expect you not to lie to me. And I want you to promise.”

            He chews on the inside of his cheek. Then he nods. “Promise.”

            “Okay,” I say, and it’s impossible to keep the relief from my voice. Somehow—I think it might kill me if I lose this one. And I’m not really sure why.


	17. Chapter 17

“Welcome back.”

            Harry rolls over. I woke into the dream, finding him still lying down. His shirt had pulled up in the back, showing off a strip of skin. I’ve always loved looking at that little strip of skin on a man. He takes a deep breath, and sits up. “Here I am.”

            His skin is a deeper shade of brown than usual. “Have you been on holiday?”

            I’ve not seen him in a week. On one hand, it was nice to get seven nights of uninterrupted sleep. On the other, I like my routines. He, unfortunately, has become one of them.

            “I have.” Harry looks considerably more relaxed than I’ve seen him in—well, the last two months, that’s for damned sure. He doesn’t even get up, he just sort of scoots his arse across the floor until he’s close enough for polite conversation, then he sprawls out.

            I raise my brow. Vacation. There’s a thought. “Where were you off to?”

            “Thailand.”

            “Thailand?” I say with no small measure of surprise. “Well, certainly explains the change in time zones, doesn’t it.”

            “Mm. I might settle there permanently, be rid of you.”

            I almost avoid the urge to glower at him. I don’t quite succeed, but I don’t know. I’m in a strange mood tonight.

            “George showed up through my fireplace on my birthday, said ‘get your kit, we’re off,’ and about fifteen minutes later we were taking the international Floo all the way to East Asia.”

            Shuddering, I say, “The Floo.”

            “I know. Never liked apparating either. Honestly, if I have to travel, I’d do it by car or broom. But it would take a considerable amount of time to fly, and I don’t bother complaining about the rest anymore because everyone just made fun of me for it.”

            “Why don’t you like apparating?”

            Gagging, Harry says, “Are you joking? That squeezing, can’t breathe feeling? Knowing that any second you could end up with half your arm here and half your arm there? No thank you.”

            “Apparating is safe if you do it properly. I’ve never been splinched and I’ve been apparating thirteen years now.”

            “Well, good for you, I’ll be sure to get you a medal,” he says. I don’t get my hackles up over it. His insults are lazy things today. Almost good natured. I guess he really did need some time away. _From doing nothing save pottering about in his shed_. God, I _am_ of a mood tonight, aren’t I?

            “Why was George the one to show up in your fireplace?”

            “Oh, that’s just George. At least once a year he says, all right, off we go, and we end up somewhere completely mad. Everyone came for two days, but George and I, we stayed the whole week.” Harry seems compelled to explain, “We’re really the only single ones in the Weasley clan.”

            “He’s never married?”

            “He did. Divorced. Not one for settling, George. Only one in the family who hasn’t. Percy’s got a wife. Charlie—“ Harry snorts. “He’s had the same boyfriend and girlfriend going on four years now, and you should see Molly’s face every time they come around for holidays. Every time—‘Why can’t you just pick one or the other, dear?’ Poor Molly.” He laughs a little, then brushes his hair back from his face. It doesn’t look like a disaster tonight, merely sort of windblown. God, why is he annoying me so much this evening? He’s not being a prat. “And you? What things have you been up to?”

            “Nothing that interesting. I’d rather hear about Thailand.”

            Harry narrows his eyes. “No you wouldn’t.”

            “No, I do—“

            “No, you don’t.” He draws himself up, studying me. I look back, feeling insolent. With a frown, he asks, “Something wrong?”

            “No,” I say, and it’s the truth. There’s nothing really wrong. Some days are just—off.

            “Everything all right with your kids?”

            I’m not sure how to reply. It’s the most interest he’s shown in my day to day life—in my actual existence—since the start of this whole mad thing. Perhaps he should go on vacation from being a mopey bastard more often.

            _Jesus, Draco, it’s not his fault that you’re feeling on edge_.

            “I’ve one that’s…problematic.”

            “Is this Us? Your problem case?”

            Stone the crows. He has been listening. “No. Not Us. He’s not speaking to me at the moment. Presumably he’s still digesting the whole ‘there’s an entire world you didn’t know existed’ nonsense. No, this is one of the other boys.”

            A few seconds tick by, and Harry says, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

            “Have you seen _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_? Because I’m having a slight flashback to it—you haven’t. I can tell by your face.” I ruffle my hair, then tuck it back. “I’ve…mentioned Evan before, yes?”

            “The one who’s not really one of your boys. You said it was complicated.”

            I grimace. “He’s one of mine,” I say with determination. “He is. Saying that it was complicated—that was my own cowardice and my own issues speaking. He wasn’t supposed to be one of mine. The same day—you popped back into my life and this whole thing started—Derrell called me in that morning, asked me if I’d keep an eye on this boy with the rest until the end of the school year. He’d—his mother found these journals he wrote. He very—very explicitly wrote about how he was going to kill all his classmates and himself.”

            Harry blinks, and says, “Good _grief_. Don’t they arrest people for that kind of thing over there?”

            “Oh, they do. They take them and throw away the key. Usually I’m deeply reluctant to let the police be involved with the students. They’re more like to kill them than help them or give them a break. I’ve told you about that prick Lyman. He’s left three of my boys in bruises now. So I don’t often want the police anywhere near my children. But this boy—I couldn’t understand why in the hell Derrell was trying to keep this boy away from the police.”

            “He didn’t tell them?”

            “No,” I say, still stunned by it. “He’d spoken to Evan, and the boy seemed—it’s odd, I mean—on the one hand, I understand why Derrell thought he could be helped after talking to him. But on the other hand—the first time I was alone with Evan, I told him that if I ever thought he was about to hurt one of the others, I’d kill him first.”

            “Of course you did.”

            “No one harms my boys. Not even another child. I took him on because—Derrell asked me for a favour. He’s my best friend. He’s done as much for me as anyone else in my life, and if he asks me to do something, I do it. Well, when he’s not being manipulated by one of his class appropriate boyfriends, but don’t get me fucking started. Anyways. From the start, I—“

            I stop myself. This feels too far. I don’t know why I care—who would he tell? Do I even care if he does? It’s not like I care about his opinion of me. He certainly hasn’t given me any reason to.

            Harry tilts his head, curious. “What?” he prompts.

            It’s nothing. Honesty. Rigorous honesty. My face a blank, I say, “There were things he wrote in the journal that were word for word things I’d said to Myrtle.”

            He doesn’t react a moment. There’s even some confusion on his face. Then his eyes clear. “ _Moaning_ Myrtle?”

            “That descriptor was not the name her parents gave her.”

            “Fuck. I’d want to stay the hell away from him too, given what a terror you were.”

            “He’s not—he’s not like that at all. I mean—on the surface, we’re entirely different. I was a bully, I was obvious. Evan, he’s—you remember Howard Gillibee?”

            Harry pulls a face. “Can’t say as I do.”

            “Exactly. He was in our year. Ravenclaw. I had to be paired with him one time in lessons, and I honestly didn’t recognize him. It was as if he’d appeared from nowhere. After that, I completely forgot him, unless I’d see him, and then I’d think, ‘right, he exists.’ Some children are just completely invisible. Evan’s one of those boys. On the surface. Underneath, he’s—furious in a way he almost never shows. If his mother hadn’t found those journals—I really think either several people would be dead or he would be. And he’s not—I talk to him, and he just seems shy. He doesn’t seem like a bad child. But I know what he wrote, and I get these hints off him sometimes, and I just worry that he’s broken.”

            Harry shrugs. “Well, you keep claiming you turned out all right, so what’s to say he won’t?”           

            I can’t stop myself anymore. “Are you high?”

            “Sorry?”

            “You’re actually being civil tonight. What’s happening?”

            He cracks a grin. “Maybe I can just tell that it bothers you.”

            “Oh, well, thanks,” I say, cross. I wrap my arms around myself, glaring at the white floor.

            “This one really bothers you, doesn’t he.”

            “Yes.”

            “Why?”

            “Because…even with all our differences…in all my years, I’ve never had a boy who reminds me as much of myself. What I was like inside. And I _know_ what I was capable of. I have to get this right. Not like adults did for me. People knew what I was doing, and they let me go about it. I refuse to let that happen with him.” I scratch my lower lip. “Only….”

            “Only what?”

            I look at him, and shrug. “What if he’s just broken?” I ask quietly.

            Harry doesn’t have an answer for me. He wouldn’t. He’s the undisputed master of overcoming everything, no matter the hardship he came from. I don’t think he knows what broken feels like, or if he ever could.

            “Enough about my life,” I say with finality. “Tell me about Thailand.”

 

Next night, we’re talking, and I ask, “Will you have children?”

            “Me?” Harry seems a bit amused by that.

            “If Ron Weasley can be a father, I don’t see why you can’t.”

            Harry’s eyes flicker. “Ron’s a great dad.”

            “I never said he wasn’t. Keep in mind, though, all I have in my mind are the bits and pieces you tell me, and my own impressions of an entirely ridiculous teenage boy. I have a hard time imagining any of those people with children. Who in our year even has offspring?”

            “The Patils both have twins of their own.”

            “Christ save them.”

            “Cho’s little boy just turned one.”

            “Who?”

            “Cho Chang. Ravenclaw.”

            I shrug. “I don’t remember her.” Harry rolls his eyes, and I have to ask, “What?”

            “She was Diggory’s girlfriend. She was the first girl I ever kissed.”

            “Why would I know that? Did you put that bit in your autobiography and I just skimmed it over?”

            He’s blushing. Good. “No, of course I didn’t—“

            “Then why would I know? What about Neville? He and Ginny ever end up with any little red heads tripping underfoot?”

            Harry frowns a moment. Why? Have they split up? He has mentioned them, hasn’t he? I’m certain he has—his face clears. “No. No, they’re still working on it.”

            “They’re—working on it.”

            Harry lifts his hands. “Oh—God, that’s not what I meant and you know it.”

            “Out of sheer curiosity, you and her ever—?” I raise my eyebrows knowingly.

            “I am _not_ telling you that.”

            “So that’s a yes.”

            “It’s not a yes or a no, it’s—I’m not discussing Ginny Weasley’s sex life with you.”

            “Well, we never discuss yours.”

            “We never discuss _yours_ either.”

            “Why? Would you be interested?”

            “Ugh. Why must you twist everything?” Still blushing. It’s almost attractive. Almost.

 

“You never answered my question last night.”

            “Which question?”

            “If you want to have children.”

            “Haven’t given it much thought, really.”

            I mutter, “The follow up title to your memoir.”

            “If only there was something in here for me to chuck at you.” Harry leans over his legs, stretching down to his toes. “You’ve thought about it, though.”

            “You having kids? No. I mean, only in the abstract, and only so long as to have a vague sense of horror about the whole thing.”

            “You’re hilarious, as always. You thought enough about it that you know you’re not going to.”

            “I’ve six to seven children every year. They’re more than enough.”

            “You know what I mean.”

            “Do you want to have a go at my family again tonight? Is that what this is? Draco, refusing to carry on the family line, what a scandal.”

            “Doesn’t seem like I need to have a go at it. You’re already plenty defensive about the thing.”

            “I am not—“ He’s winding me up. That’s what this is. I fix him with a look. “You want to discuss my decision not to have children? Fine. It’s partially a punishment for my parents, but mostly a matter of common sense.”

            “How do you mean?”

            Gritting my teeth, I say, “I mean, the line of Malfoy is diseased.” He looks taken aback a moment. I cross my legs at the ankles. “Not just them. The Blacks. The Lestranges. They’re all disgustingly inbred. At this point, we’re lucky we can still walk upright. Not that there’s many of us left, thank Christ. There’s me. There’s that godson of yours. Watch him like a hawk. The first sign of something off, you’d be best to take him out back and have him shot.”

            “Don’t fucking talk like that about him.”

            “He’s a Black. Doesn’t matter that his parents were in the Order. Lunacy is in his DNA.”

            “You don’t want me talking shit about your kids, you watch your fucking mouth about Teddy.”

            “My children are products of poverty and an uncaring system. Myself and Theodore are the products of cousin-fucking the likes of which you can’t imagine. He and I came off the same tree, Harry—either the whole thing is rotten, like you’ve suggested, and he’s not worth it because of where he came from, or you have to accept that I’m more than just the name Malfoy. If he’s more than the sum of his parts, then so am I.”

            “Well, he doesn’t have Malfoy in his veins, does he.”

            I pinch the bridge of my nose. Sometimes it’s like talking to a wall.

 

“You really don’t want to have kids because of your family?”

            “Of course I don’t. Not that it’s even an option. I mean—take into account that if I was to have children, I doubt I’d do it on my own. And I don’t date, so it’s not like I’m about to have children with the man of my dreams any time soon.”

            “Why don’t you date?”

            “Why don’t _you_?” I return.

            He points at his face. Almost at his scar. “Because I’m Harry Potter. And Harry Potter doesn’t get to date like a regular person.”

            “Does Harry Potter intend to continue talking about himself in the third person? Because Draco Malfoy considers that fairly obnoxious.”

            “Why don’t you date?” Harry repeats.

            “I’ve told you before. I don’t want to date a wizard, and I’d be lying to a regular. That’s not healthy.”

            “Healthy,” he mutters. He folds his arms. “Have you—seriously, never had a boyfriend?”

            “No.”

            “Then how do you know it wouldn’t work?”

            “Good lord, are you trying to encourage me? This is a strange turn of events.”

            “No, I’m just saying—“ He rolls his eyes with a put upon sigh. “You can do all these things that I can’t, and—I don’t know. I suppose it pisses me off that you don’t.”

            “Weird.”

            “It’s not weird, it’s—you’re weird.”

            “That’s—the best you can do?”

            He sighs again.

 

Taking a seat, I say, “Us showed up today.”

            Harry’s wearing another one of his solid colour tees, today in red, with his silly Chudley Cannons boxers. He doesn’t much care what I think of his wardrobe anymore, nor his lack of colour coordination. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

            “Over a week. Last time he came for all of five minutes, because I’d been texting him like mad.”

            “And?”

            Grimacing, I answer, “He says he’s fine, but he’s obviously not. He’ll look me in the eyes, but his face is just—“ I wave a hand in front of it. “Blank. He’s shut off.”

            “You think he’s scared?”

            “Of course he’s scared. He’s sixteen and he’s just discovered magic exists. That there’s a whole world beyond his realm of understanding. But he’s a teenage boy. He has to pretend not to give a shit.”

            “Teenagers,” Harry muses. He squints at me. “That’s not an easy thing.”

            With a snort, I agree, “No, it bloody well isn’t.”

            “Most people would run screaming. But you didn’t.”

            “I told you, I just fell into the thing. I didn’t go looking for it. Turned out I was good with them. I’m not like anyone they’ve ever known. That gets me in the door a few inches. When they find out I don’t put up with their shit and I don’t lie to them—for the most part—that’s when they let me in the rest of the way.”

            “What have you lied to them about?”

            With a straight face, I answer, “Wizard? We all know _wizards_ don’t exist.”

            He laughs a little. His adam’s apple bobs a bit when he does. Thoughtfully, Harry says, “You imagine that’s why Us is so upset about the situation? He thought you were honest, and you were lying about there being a whole other world.”

            “Oh, that’s certainly part of it. Add that to his fear, and—“ I say the unthinkable. “Maybe I’ve lost him.” I toss up my hands. “I was so close. He told me what he really wanted to do with his life—he hasn’t been near Nines in months, or so I hear—he was going out of his way to be friendly with Evan—and now magic might have just bollocksed the whole thing up. Like it always does.”

            I flop onto my back. I let my arms fall above my head, and gaze up into the luminous nothing. This place wouldn’t be terrible. If it wasn’t a place for endless talking about all the negative shit. Harry never really wants to talk about things that would make him smile. He guides us away from it, like God forbid we not hate one another until the end of time.

            “Malfoy, dramatic as always. He’ll come around.”

            “What makes you say that?” I ask, little pin pricks appearing around my eyes as I stare too long at the nothing.

            “Because you won’t leave him alone. You’re too bloody stubborn.”

            Interesting. I prop myself up on my elbows, waiting to see if the walls ripple. He’s not looking at me with disdain, he’s not bemoaning the fact that I have a tendency to sink my teeth in and not let go—he’s stating a fact. A true fact, a thing about me that’s not negative.

            But the walls don’t ripple.

            Harry asks, “What?”

            Dropping back down, I say, “Nothing.”

 

“Can I ask you something?”

            I look at him through the wall of my hair. It’s been a boring night. Sometimes neither of us really have anything to say, and we can be here for hours occasionally, especially if he’s forgotten to set his alarm. We certainly don’t have the material or patience to talk for three hours straight. I’d be fine with long silences, but he gets antsy and starts to talk Quidditch if no one says anything for more than two minutes.

            I’ve resorted to braiding some of my hair, just to have something to do. He has been less vocal then usual tonight. Which is fine. It’s certainly better than having to listen to the strategic shortcomings of the Harpies’ Beaters. Pushing my hair away from my face, I say, “Certainly.”

            Harry looks anxious, but he’s trying not to show it. Biting his lower lip and everything. He takes a deep breath, and says, “You’ve died, haven’t you.”

            I gaze at him, and say, “I can’t tell if that was a statement or a question.”

            Undeterred, Harry says, “The first time we were here, when I was—having a bit of a panic—“

            I point at him. “Ah ha! I told you, didn’t I?”

            He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Malfoy, now shut up.” His eyes go serious. “But you knew this wasn’t—after. You’ve seen it too.”

            Shrugging, I reply, “You know I tried to kill myself when I was eighteen.”

            “You didn’t try. You succeeded.”

            That gets him another shrug. “Might have.”

            Harry leans forward, curiosity taking over his expression. “This here—it’s close enough that I admit, I jumped to conclusions. But you knew it wasn’t. You went somewhere else, didn’t you. Someplace that didn’t look like this.”

            Softly, I say, “I might have.”

            His eyes flick across my face. What is he looking for? I can’t tell, and I don’t even know if I want him to find it or not. “What did it look like? Is it like—I go to King’s Cross. Every time I die, it’s always King’s Cross. Was it something like that for you? A place like where you’d been?”

            It’s not a memory I like to linger on. Most of my teenage years are not ones that I like to linger on, but some things—some things are not meant for others. Carefully, I say, “It was a place I did not want to see again. And a place I never intend to return to.”

            “Why? What did you see?”

            I shake my head.

            That’s all he’s getting. I know it’ll likely drive him barmy, because he’s Harry Potter and he thinks he’s entitled to everything. This is not a thing he can have.

            He can see that I’m going to dig in my heels, and he frowns. Still, he won’t stop. “Did you see someone? I always see someone when I’m there. Someone talks to me. Did someone come to see you?”

            I gaze at him, blinking placidly.

            When Harry speaks this time, there’s a touch of desperation to his voice. “Was it him?”

            He wants to know. He wants to know the truth. Not the lies he was told all those years.

            But it wasn’t for him. It was for me. I try to live relatively unselfishly, but some things are just not for sale, no matter how pretty the green eyes might be on the man who’s asking.

            “Let’s talk about those Beaters,” I say quietly.

            “Malfoy—“

            Putting steel in my tone, I repeat, “Let’s talk about those Beaters.”

            He sees I’m immovable. Disappointment is written all over his face like a crayon. He nods.

 

“It would be like if Weasley and Granger split up.”

            Harry grimaces. “Ah.”

            We got to talking about Jason because I’m in one of his dragon shirts. No one does dragons like Jason. They seem like they’re about to come alive. Without all that actual obnoxious moving business.

            “Derrell was offered the position, and—he’s wanted to teach for as long as he can remember. It’s what he loves, what he’s passionate about. He thought being principal was just an extension of that. It’s not—he doesn’t get to teach anymore. He’s basically just administration. It’s turned his hair grey, and he’s barely thirty eight. But he really—I love Derrell. I do. He and Jason are my best mates. Always will be. Just because someone’s your friend, though, it doesn’t mean you don’t see it when they fuck up. And he fucked up terribly with Jason. Didn’t tell him about the job offer. Didn’t tell him he was considering it. Didn’t tell him he was taking it. Just ended up taking it, and then told him, more or less, I can’t be seen with you anymore.”

            “That’s _shit_.”

            “I was spectacularly unimpressed. If I didn’t love him as much as I do—“ I shake my head. “Jason was completely shocked. We _all_ were shocked. We all have the same friends, people who orbit the shop. And Derrell, it was like he said—you’re all lesser. That hurt, but it’s nothing compared to what Jason went through. He’d been talking to me about maybe proposing. I thought it was a grand idea. They were going to stay the course, they were. Only they didn’t.”

            “Do they talk at all?”

            I shake my head with a snort. “No. Christ no. Derrell, he’s always been of that attitude, you know, we’re all grownups, let’s get along, pretending like he didn’t drop an atom bomb. Jason, though, after he stopped being devastated, went straight to rage and hasn’t left. One thing to be ditched by the love of your life. Entirely another to be told that it’s because you’re not good enough to even be seen with. They’ll be in the same room if it’s my birthday or if I have a party, but that’s the only time.”

            “You throw parties?”

            “It’s been a while, but I’ll have you know my parties are a _joy_.”

            “I’m picturing finger sandwiches and fine china, but you’ll probably try to convince me otherwise, won’t you.”

            “More like sangria and crisps, but so long as everyone’s sozzled at the end of the night, who’s keeping track?” I lace my fingers together, pushing them outward. “Do you ever think what would happen, which side you’d end up on, if Granger and Weasley split?”

            Harry starts to laugh. “Never happen.”

            He’s being hopelessly naïve. “It happens.”

            “Not to them. Some people—you just know.”

            I raise a brow at him. Propping my chin on my hands, I say, “Do me a favour.”

            “Not likely.”

            “Next time you see Hermione, have a chat with her. You and her alone. Ask her if she ever thinks about what would happen if they split up.”

            “I will not. She’ll think I’ve lost my mind.”

            “You can tell her I asked you to do it. Tell her I’m proving a point.”

            “What point is that?”

            “That straight men have a tendency to be extremely sentimental at the strangest of times.”

            Harry raises his eyes to the nothing. “You think you know everything, don’t you.”

            “Ask her.”

            “Why not Ron?”

            “Because he’s not bright enough to contemplate it.” I’m not so rid of my younger self that I don’t take some childish glee in how his nostrils flare. “But her—I’ll bet you she’s thought about it.”

            Harry just laughs me off, arrogant as always. “No bet. Not even the satisfaction of proving you wrong would be enough for me to raise _that_ conversation with Hermione.” He chuckles a little. “Mad, you are.”

 

“Out of curiosity,” Harry says.

            “Dangerous words,” I reply.

            He rubs the back of his neck, with a strange little frown on his face. “Last night—you said you’d bet me Hermione’s thought of splitting with Ron.”

            “Of course she has. I’m not saying she intends to do it. I’m just telling you, she’s thought about it.”

            “You said you’d bet me.”

            My mouth pulls into the familiar-feeling Malfoy sneer. “Want something, don’t you.”

            “Well, I was thinking…I’m going over there tomorrow for dinner. I could ask her while Ron’s taking the dog out.”

            I can tell from his eyes that he definitely wants something. But I can’t for the life of me imagine what. “You could. On the off chance that I’m wrong—or that she won’t admit to it—what do you want?”

            Harry says, “You lose, you tell me about when you died.”

            I’d be worried if he wasn’t making a sucker’s wager. “Fine.”

            “That was quick.”

            I point to my face. “Slytherin runs through these veins. Do you really think I make a bet I’m not sure of?” A little shadow crosses across his eyes—aha. Doubt. I fucking love to see that. I fold my arms, and say smugly, “So…what do I get if I win?”

            “You could ask for the moon and stars if you wanted. Not like you’ll be getting them.”

            I think of a topic that he always steers away from. I think of how precious he is when he blushes. I think of how much I’ve always loved to see him squirm. “If I win,” I say, “you have to tell me all about whoever you fucked in Thailand.”

            He swallows. Actually, visibly swallows. “Beg pardon?”

            “I’ll want descriptions. Details. I will want _all_ the details. I’m not usually one to have any desire to hear about heterosexual—“ I wave at him. “Whatever it is you people do. But you are just _adorable_ whenever I raise the topic.”

            “Come on. That’s just—disgusting.”

            A thought occurs to me, and I backpedal. “Do you not actually like sex? I don’t mean to be insensitive if that’s the case. If it’s not actually a thing you engage in, then by all means, I won’t mention again—“

            “I _do_ ,” Harry insists, and there’s that lovely blush. “I am not—I like sex just fine, thank you.”

            “Are you sure? There’s no shame in not liking it. I can find something else to harass you about quite as easily, I assure you.”

            He gets his Harry Potter face on. The one that says, ‘I’ve made up my mind and nothing living or dead will stop me.’ “You’ve a bet. I win, you tell me about dying. You win—which you _won’t_ —I tell you about my Thailand escapades. Agreed?”

            “Agreed.”

            He looks down at his hand. “Guess we can’t exactly shake on it.”

            “Oh, just be glad I didn’t ask you to seal it with a kiss.” I wink at him.

            Harry flushes even darker, and says, “You’re going to feel damned silly when you lose.”

            Then I don’t see him for a week.

 

When he finally shows his face, I bark, “Good _God_.”

            He’s looking rather peaky, big circles around his eyes. Harry glares at me from under his brows, walking over to flop down in front of me. The shirt he’s wearing has a stain on it. I mean, I understand that he’s just wearing it to bed, but nonetheless—you’d never see me in a filthy shirt in my clean sheets.

            A tad alarmed, I ask, “They didn’t actually split, did they? Just because I mentioned it? You can’t blame me if they did. Even you know that would be a ridiculous stretch. I don’t wield that much power.”

            Harry says, “Shut up, Malfoy.”

            That tan from Thailand has completely disappeared. It doesn’t look like his hair has been combed in days. “Something else happen? Did someone die? You look as though someone has died.”

            Rubbing his palms into his eyes, Harry sighs, “Would you please shut up?”

            “I could, but it would make for a very quiet evening, and we both know how well you handle those. Point being that you don’t.”

            He takes a deep breath, to the point where I see his chest fill, then release. Harry puts his hands down at his side and looks me straight on with exhausted eyes. “We’re going to get right to this, because I’ve set my alarm to go off every half hour, so we’ll discuss this, and then I’m staying up until you get up too. Then I’m going back to bed. Understood?”

            This is equal parts alarming and intriguing. “Understood.” I lift a brow. “I’ll assume I’ve won our bet.”

            With a grimace, Harry says, “It went poorly, Malfoy. Poorly.”

            “Is she cross at you or something?”

            “Oh—bad enough that I have to deal with you at night. But when your machinations bleed out into my daily life, I’m just incredibly displeased.”

            “Machinations nothing. I’m just saying anything I can think of at this point. You refuse to see me as I am, so I’m just throwing things at the wall to see what sticks.”

            His expression is murderous. “So. Ron went to take the dog for a walk. And me—stupid, naïve me—I say to Hermione, I’ve got a silly question for you. Keep in mind, Malfoy brought it up, so it’s obviously rubbish, but do you want to hear it anyways? And she said, sure Harry. So what do I do? I ask her.”

            Waiting, I say, “And she told you the truth.”

            “Like _that_ wasn’t bad enough. She was startled, that’s for sure. Then there’s me—stupid me—thinking that she’ll just laugh it off, because of course she will. The two of them will be together forever. But she doesn’t laugh at all. She just keeps drying the dishes and says, that’s a difficult question, Harry.”

            “What did you say to that?”

            Rubbing the back of his neck, Harry admits, “I—suppose I lost my temper a little. She took me by surprise, is all!”

            “So she was honest and you yelled at her.”

            “I didn’t _yell_. It was more of a—yelp, if anything. I asked what she meant, saying it was difficult. She told me not to get upset, that all couples think about it—“ He gives me a furious look. He’s no call to be angry with me, I was merely honest with him. “And I…admittedly, did not take it well.”

            “Of course not. Do you take _anything_ well?”

            He makes such an unhappy face. I expected him to snap at me, same as he always does. Instead, for one miraculous moment, he looks utterly self-aware. As if he understands exactly how difficult he makes things for everyone.

            That disappears in seconds, though. The wall goes back up, and Harry says, “Anyways, she was trying to tell me it was normal and I was saying it wasn’t, but of course what do I bloody know, because it’s not like I’ve been with anyone for more than four months my whole life—which she pointed out, rather correctly—and it was—a debacle. She was near in tears when Ron came back in and I was—“ He scowls, and gestures to himself.

            “Doing your best impression of an irate chicken?”

            “Please fuck yourself. Ron looked gobsmacked. It’s not like Hermione and I fight. She just…I didn’t think it was something she ever thought of. They’re happy! They—look happy!” Harry waves a dismissive hand at me. “If _your_ parents can stand the test of time, Ron and Hermione sure as hell will.”

            Alarmed, I say, “My parents are not a rubric to measure anything against. I beseech you.”

            “Yeah, well—anyways, I said it was nothing and just took off as soon as I could. Because of course I did.” I get the impression that if there were something in front of him, he would kick it. “Next day, I’ve got one of my best friends standing in my living room after he walked out on his wife.”

            Jaw dropping, I find myself momentarily at a loss for words. “Again—this is not my fault. They’re adults, they make their own choices—“

            “They didn’t split, you egotistical git.” I feel like that’s the pot calling the kettle black, but best I hold my tongue for the time being. Harry lets out a huff. “The night I left, Rose called Ron into her room in the dead of night, and asked why Mummy and Daddy were splitting up.”

            I could throttle him. “You didn’t make sure the child was as far from you as possible before having that conversation?”

            “We thought she was in her room!”

            “Children are never where you think they’ll be! How can you not know that? You of all people!”

            If he could, I think Harry would exhale steam from his nose. “As it stands—Ron had no idea what she was talking about, but he put two and two together about me and Hermione fighting and he thought—he thought she’d told me something, that she was going to leave and she’d told me. Well, the two of them get in a screaming match, because sometimes they do that. I know they do that. They’re fucking human. People fight. They went to their separate corners until it was time to get Rosie up, but then they started in again once she was at Molly and Arthur’s, and it ended with Ron taking off and appearing in my fireplace.”

            With an eye roll, I say, “Let me guess. He was as stunned as you are that she’d actually considered the possibilities instead of just merrily thinking ‘happily ever after.’”

            I can tell from his sour expression that I’m right. “He stayed at mine for two days—and the last thing I fucking wanted was to talk to _you_ , because you set this whole thing off—“

            “I’ll keep saying it until you listen. It’s not my fault you and Weasley are emotionally stunted—“

            “Finally Molly showed up on my doorstep to tell him to go home—“ I cover a snicker, and Harry points at me. “Oi! Don’t even start. You know what everyone agrees, even in the middle of the mess?”

            “Oh, let me guess. I’m the villain.”

            “Everyone thinks you’re a prick for stirring the pot.”

            “All I did was tell you the truth. That’s not stirring the pot, that’s—“

            “It _is_ ,” Harry insists. “You’ve always been like that, your whole life. Always using the truth like a weapon when a lie wouldn’t suit you. Always so damned clever, knowing what other people don’t, and using it to hurt them with it.”

            Well.

            I mean—that’s certainly true. I did that all the time when I was a teenager. But it’s not a thing I do now. I’m not like that.

            Am I?

            No! I’m not. I didn’t say it expecting there to be a whole hubbub at the Granger-Weasley household. I just said it to get a—rise out of Harry. Right. So not hurting, per say. Still not exactly kind.

            I could explain myself. I could try and wriggle my way out. Or I just be the adult in the situation.

            Why does it always have to be me?

            _Oh, stop your whining_.

            “It was not my intention to hurt anyone,” I say, and Harry snorts. He crosses his arms, looking away from me. “Nonetheless—I’m sorry that my actions led to that happening. I doubt that any of the people involved would want to hear it, but you can extend my apologies. If that’s a thing you’d like to do.”

            Sometimes his eyes get very dark, like emeralds passing under shadow. I guess I know where I can stick my apologies.

            “So?” I say. “You’ve stayed away all this time because you’re upset with me?”

            He’s chewing on his lip something awful. “No,” he spits out.

            That leaves only one option. With a smile, I say, “So you didn’t want to honour the bet, is what you’re really telling me.”

            “I’m true to my word. I just don’t…it is not a thing I discuss. It’s no one’s business.”

            And what the hell. I take pity on him. I confess, I feel a bit bad about instigating such a domestic ruckus. “Never mind, then.” I shrug. “I don’t really want to hear about you being knee deep in vagina, or however it is you go about it. I just said it to get under your skin. It’s worked. You can keep your details, and your secrets, entirely to yourself.”

            Harry glares at me with wide eyes. “Don’t even fucking start with me, Malfoy.”

            “What?” I say, defensive. “You don’t want to discuss it, fine. I’m not the kind of person who forces another into discussing a thing they’d rather leave alone.” I think about it, then shrug again. “Well, that’s an outright lie, but—“

            “Don’t pity me.”

            “Pity you? Ugh. You’re worthy of plenty, but pity is not one of them.”

            “I agreed, and so I’ll tell you.”

            “Honestly, the more I think about it, the more I really don’t care.”

            The words practically spill out of Harry. “The thing of it is, I was with a man in Thailand.”

            Seconds pass.

            Ah.

            Right. Right, I’m expected to speak. Not laugh! No! That can’t be my reaction. I get my mouth under control before it can so much as twitch. Harry, stubborn bastard that he is, is watching my every move, presumably to jump down my throat at the first hint of anything resembling mockery.

            Classic Malfoy control. Face blank, voice level. “At least we’re entering my area of interest.”

            Harry lets out an angry exhale. “I’m not gay.”

            God, he’s not one of _those_ , is he? “Of course not.”

            “No, not of course not, it’s—I like women just fine. Sometimes I fancy men as well. That’s the long and short of it.”

            “All right,” I say evenly.

            Harry fucking ‘I Saved the World’ Potter is queer. That is—beyond hilarious. The fact that he’s so irked by it just makes it even funnier.

            “No, not _all right_ , I mean it. I’m not one, I’m not the other, I’m just whatever the hell I am, and that’s the beginning, middle, and end of it.”

            “So you don’t care for the term bisexual, is what you’re telling me.”

            Not sure why he’s looking at me this time, or why his eyes are suddenly so vulnerable. “Are you listening to me?”

            “I am. You’re not gay, fine. But you don’t just sleep with women, so you’re certainly not straight. My assumption would be that you’re bisexual, but you seem averse to labels, so I’m simply trying to understand without the benefit of words that come with preconceived meaning. You may have to explain a touch more before I get the complete picture.”

            “I’m not telling you anything else,” Harry says, his voice small. He’s still gazing at me, like I’ve done something out of the ordinary. No idea why—he’s the Christ figure who just said he gets off with other men. I’m certainly not the one dropping bombs here.

            “Fine. I already said you didn’t have to tell me what you did in Thailand. You’re the one who seemed to take it as reverse psychology, which was not what I intended.” I tug on the hem of my shirt and ask, “So if we’re not discussing your torrid Thai affair, do you want to hear about Roderick? I had a good visit with him today.”

            The walls ripple _hard_.

            For a good three seconds, I can see the painting on my wall that Jason gave me for my birthday. I can see the mirror. I can see the green lights overhead that I left on again.

            It all covers up with white, and I look at Harry, astonished. He doesn’t seem to have noticed.

            The first time they did that, it’s when I told him I was gay. What in the hell is it about this particular topic that gets to him? Does no one else know? Is that what it is?

            “Are you okay?” I ask gently.

            “Why wouldn’t I be?” There’s no heat to his voice, though.

            “I know we’re not talking about it, but—do other people know?”

            For a second, Harry is the absolute picture of despair. “They know. That’s the fucking problem.”

            I’m going to open my mouth, but he goes—here one second, gone the next.

            And I wake up in my bed, confused, and wondering what the hell happens next.


	18. Chapter 18

Like a great many things in my life, I lacked a certain manner of experience until I was firmly into my twenties.

            We were sitting in a diner one evening, and I was halfway through a burger the size of my head—I’d never had a hamburger until I arrived in America—when Jason cleared his throat. “Hey buddy—“ Derrell jabbed him in the side with his elbow, and Jason cast him a sideways glance.

            I looked between them, and put down my food. Wary, I asked, “What?”

            They had one of those silent couple conversations, where everything was communicated with contortions of the brow and a turn of the mouth. Finally, Jason turned back to me, and Derrell sighed, returning to his food. Spreading his hands, Jason said, “Not to make assumptions, but you’re gay, right?”

            No one had asked me like that. When Margritte asked, she had been surprised, and gentle. Not matter of fact like this, like it was a foregone conclusion. I know that it shouldn’t have been a surprise—this man was queer, after all—but I was still taken aback. The old way—to be shocked and appalled—was not the way to do things. I’d no idea what the right way was, though. Instead of saying anything, I instead wiped my hands on my napkin, buying myself some time.

            Pitying, Derrell said, “You don’t have to talk about it—“

            “I am,” I said, and it was my upbringing more than anything that put the frost in my voice. Classic Malfoy reaction: even if you’re ashamed, act like the other person is the one who should be embarrassed. “What of it?”

            “Well, nothing,” Jason shrugged, “but we’re going to the bar this weekend and I wanted you to come, but he thought you weren’t ready.”

            “We’re not going anywhere,” Derrell muttered, “if you try and throw me under a bus again.”

            Confused, but refusing to show it, I said, “I’ve already been to the bar with you.”

            “Not Paladin’s, buddy. Johnny and June’s.” I gazed at him blankly, and Jason elaborated, “Gay bar.”

            Like that, my stand offish exterior evaporated. “Oh.” My stomach churned, and I tried not to shift in my seat. “Suppose I should have gathered that.” I could see that Derrell was about to tell me again to do things at my own pace, that I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want, so I said, “All right.”

            Jason nodded, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Cool. Okay, first off—you have to wear something else.”

            Derrell sighed, and I glanced down at myself. I was wearing what I wore every day. Black slacks and a black dress shirt. “What’s wrong about my outfit this time?”

            Jason arched a brow. “Well.”

            “Jason Marley,” Derrell said, “leave that poor boy alone.”

            “You do not want to go into the bar wearing that. For one thing—you’ll stick out more than you already do—Derrell, I swear to God, you kick me one more time, I’m going to tickle you in front of all these people. There’s no point in lying to him.”

            “I don’t care if I stick out,” I said. That was an outright lie. “This is what I’m comfortable in.”

            “You won’t be if you come to the bar. It’s warm as balls in there. You’ll be a sweaty mess a half hour in. I mean it—you go in there like that, you’ll be taking your shirt off whether you like it or not.”

            I barked. “Not bloody likely.”

            Derrell pulled a face. “Not to tell you what to wear, but he’s kind of got a point. You’ll roast like a turkey if you dress like that.”

            “It’s December. It can’t be that warm in there.”

            They said simultaneously, “It will be.”

            “Not to mention if you’re dancing,” Jason said, “which you will be, if you go with us—“

            “You dance?” I said incredulously.

            Derrell stretched an arm across his shoulders. “Like a dream,” he said with some pride, and kissed Jason on the forehead.

            “Thanks babe,” Jason said, giving him a smack on the thigh. “Seriously—you and me, we’ll go shopping, get you some clothes that doesn’t look like they came from the mortician’s line—“

            “Call me Riff Raff again,” I muttered, “I dare you—“

            “Stuff you’ll like. It can even be black. It just has to be a little more—“ He and Derrell looked at each other, searching for the right word. Jason settled on, “Gay.”

            If it had been a year or two later, I would have had a laugh at that. He and Derrell were some of the straightest looking gay men I’ve ever encountered, each in their own way. At the time, though, they were my ambassadors to the world, and to this other world that I hadn’t even let myself think about.

            Since coming to New York, I had been too nervous to seek out any other queers on my own. There would be times that I’d feel like someone was looking at me, and when I’d raise my head, I’d find another man’s eyes on me, searching, sometimes even appreciating. I’d always look away, and if God forbid he started to walk over, I’d simply leave. I had no idea about what it meant to be gay, other than it was something I’d spent most of my life being ashamed of. I had Derrell and Jason to look up to, but until that day, they hadn’t even asked if I was gay. It was just a part of their life, in a way that seemed entirely impossible to me. What was simply another aspect of their identities had been a millstone around my neck for over a decade.

            I went out shopping with Jason, who made me try on jeans. It was the first time I’d ever worn any, and he laughed and laughed at how they made me scowl. The style at the time was almost a bit baggy, and that’s not what I care for at all. “Well, unless you want to wear leather pants,” he said.

            A bit relieved, I said, “Can I?”

            He blinked, then said, “Yeah, you bet.” I’d no idea, and he didn’t enlighten me, the bastard.

            So I was shopping for black leather pants at a store that looked like it would have felt at home on Knockturn Alley, when Jason said, “Hey—Draco. You realize people are going to be touching you at the bar, right?”

            I was in a little stall, fastening the latest pair I’d tried on. I paused. “Do they have to?”

            “They’ll want to. You’re kind of the ideal.”

            Flabbergasted, I replied, “Of what?”

            “You’re like the community’s idea of what gay is supposed to be. Skinny, blonde, young.”

            “What’s that to do with anything?”     

            “Hey, I’m not disagreeing, I’m just telling you what people think.”

            “What they think is idiotic.” I lifted my shirt a few inches, looking into the mirror at the scars that covered my torso. The lighting was flattering, but nothing in the world could make less of a horror show of my scars. Swallowing, I asked, “What do I do if I don’t want them to touch me?”

            “You say, ‘Fuck off, don’t touch me.’”

            “Seriously?”

            “Well, first you can just politely push them away. The second time, though, definitely resort to, ‘Fuck off, don’t touch me.’ You’re gonna be doing it a lot, so get used to the idea.”

            _This just keeps getting worse and worse_ , I thought, dropping my shirt.

            It continued to, when I got to their apartment, and Jason left to get some take-out. It was really just an excuse to leave me alone with Derrell, who said, “So what do you know about safe sex?”

            Had to sit through _that_ conversation. Not to say it isn’t necessary and of course I needed to hear it, but I suddenly felt extremely inundated by all things gay in a very short span of time.

            By the time we actually went to the bar, I was a tangle of nerves. I could barely speak, and every time Derrell or Jason asked if I was all right, I’d snap that I was fine. My black leather pants were comfortable, but I was unused to the feeling of the long sleeved tee shirt I was wearing. Jason had practically begged me to wear short sleeves, but I outright refused. There was only so far that I could go.

            “It’s fine if you want to stick by us all night,” Derrell assured me as we waited in the queue, exhaling frost into the winter air.

            Wrapping arms around him from behind, Jason said, “Not if I’m going to blow you in the back room for old time’s sake.”

            “I’ll be fine,” I said grimly, arms wrapped around myself in a death grip. “Go off and do what you like. I’ll be fine.” I was _highly_ aware of all the eyes on me. Men of all ages, races, shapes and sizes kept glancing at me. Their gaze would bounce off me, but they kept coming back around. I looked to see if anyone else was getting the same kind of attention. _Please, don’t let it just be me_. Only it seemed like it was. Frustrated, I whispered, “Why are people _looking_ at me?”

            This time, it was Derrell who laughed. “Because you’re gorgeous.”

            Blushing, I mumbled, “Oh, shut up.”

            When we got inside, Derrell was immediately called away by someone. I was overwhelmed by the lights in the dark and the number of people. Jason pulled me up to his side, and stuffed something in my pocket. Over the din, he hollered, “I’m going to go find a table! Why don’t you explore a bit, then come find me?”

            He patted my stomach, then took off.

            Part of me was saying, _I’m an adult, I can do this_ , and the other bit was saying, _you son of a whore, don’t leave me here on my own._ Tugging on my shirt sleeves, I took out whatever he’d put in my pocket. I had to hold it up in front of my eyes to try and see it in the dark.

            After a moment, I realized that it was a condom, and a group passing me laughed. Mortified, I shoved it back in my pocket, and cursed Jason’s name. Hands in fists, I looked about, then put my head down and made my way into the club.

            It was overwhelming. Completely overwhelming. Paladin’s was the only bar I had ever been to, and it was single story, not that big, and back then it was more of a pub. This place—I had no idea how people overheard one another. The music was so loud that I couldn’t really hear it. I could feel the bass shivering my bones, but I couldn’t make out the words. There were two stories, open to one another, and cages, actual cages, that held dancers. The walls were painted black, but red and blue lights swirled everywhere, turning everything strange.

            And the men—there were just so _many_. I was a bit relieved to see some women here and there, all of them in tight dresses and seeming completely plastered. But the sheer quantity of men, dancing with one another, laughing, smiling, _touching_. It was like something from a dream or a nightmare, I couldn’t be sure. I watched the dance floor with wide eyes, stunned by how free they were with one another.

            _Father would murder me,_ I knew with certainty.

            That put steel in my spine. I decided to let Jason and Derrell be alone. They babysat me enough as it was. And I was an adult. I was twenty two, for heaven’s sake. I could do this. In an alternate world, I was still supposed to be serving out my final year of house arrest. This wasn’t a thing to be afraid of.

            I stayed downstairs, near to the dance floor. I wandered a little, moving every time I saw someone trying to catch my eye. A man came up behind me, put his hand on my hip, and I whipped around and snapped, “Just what the fuck do you think _you’re_ doing?” He raised both hands and walked away from me backwards.

            Finally, I found an empty cage. I stood in front of it, watching the dance floor. It didn’t occur to me to join in. I wouldn’t have known what to do. I’d never danced like that. I could waltz, but this wasn’t exactly the type of establishment for that.

            In my watching, I was a bit cheered to see that I wasn’t the only one who looked like they felt out of place. Here and there, I found other men who were looking at the dance floor, a mixture of yearning and forlorn. It didn’t occur to me to go say something to them. What would I have said? _Hello, I’m another outcast_.

            I actually caught sight of Jason and Derrell. They were on the upper floor over the dance floor. Jason had Derrell pinned against the railing, and Derrell was laughing at something. He ran his hands over Jason’s beard, then leaned down to kiss him.

            My heart panged. I knew that wasn’t something I’d ever be allowed to have.

            When a finger tapped twice on my shoulder, I turned around, startled. I choked on air, to be honest.

            There was a man in the cage behind me, crouched down. He was—well, a man with a lot of muscles isn’t really my type, not that I have a defined type, but he clearly spent a few hours every day in the gym. He was maybe my age, with curly hair the colour of sand pulled back into a messy ponytail. He was looking directly at me, green eyes smiling with good humour.

            He was also wearing nothing but a red thong that left precisely nothing to the imagination.

            “I’ve been dancing at you for like five straight minutes and you’re ignoring me.”

            “Sorry?” I said, wondering if maybe I’d misheard him over the music.

            “You’ve got your back turned to me! How am I supposed to impress you if you’re not even looking at me?”

            “I didn’t realize you were supposed to be impressing me.”

            His grin widened. “You’re English!”

            “I am,” I said, working very hard to keep my eyes on his face and not the very small scrap of fabric that was wrapped around his sizable cock.

            “Now that I’ve got your attention, are you going to watch me?”

            “If I must,” I said.

            Well—if I’d thought I was gobsmacked by what came before, I certainly was unprepared for a bodybuilder in thong underwear who could climb the side of a cage and hang upside down in time to the sternum shaking beat. I watched, wide eyed, as he kept his eyes on me through the whole thing, smirking. It was rather difficult to keep my composure.

            When he started shaking his arse cheeks at me, I admit, I fled. I absolutely fled. I practically ran for the staircase, going to find Jason and Derrell.

            They were wrapped up in one another in a booth, Derrell’s legs thrown over Jason’s lap. He was a few drinks in, always more of a lightweight than Jason. He smiled at me happily. “Having a good time?”

            I gave a brisk nod, and had a seat, grateful for the dim light like I’d never been grateful for anything in my life.

            Eventually they wanted to dance, and insisted on taking me along with them. I didn’t want to, and I certainly didn’t want to be in throwing distance of the green eyed cage dancer. Keeping my head down, I followed them onto the dance floor.

            I just situated myself in the middle and tried to do what other people were doing. It felt like the definition of sin, to be honest. There I was in the middle of a writhing crowd of men, all of whom were deviants like me. Some had taken their shirts off, and it was so warm. I started to understand what Jason had meant. Within moments, I was overwarm, and my long hair wasn’t doing me any favours either. It began to stick to my neck, and my whole body was getting hot and sticky and wet.

            For the first time, I honestly reconsidered my black wardrobe.

            After a little while, despite Jason and Derrell’s pleading, I left the crowd, needing some air. I wanted desperately to push my sleeves up. My clothes were sticking to every inch of skin. The leather pants had been ill advised, I recognized that now.

            Instead of doing anything about my clothes, I gathered my hair off my neck, lifting it and closing my eyes. For a moment, I tried to simply breathe. This was—it was really a lot to take in all at once. I was struck with a feeling of exhaustion and loneliness. I thought maybe I’d always be like this. Uncomfortable. Never where I was really meant to be—if such a place existed for me at all.

            I jumped slightly when large hands settled over mine. The cage dancer had snuck up on me. He was a few inches taller than me, and I felt positively miniscule near to his size. He’d let his hair down. With a knowing smile, he said, “Here.”

            His fingers threaded into my hair, and before I realized what was happening, he had tied my hair up into a knot at the back of my head. He was giving me his hair tie.

            It was such a random act of kindness that I was stunned. I simply blinked up at him, unable to think of what to do or say. I just looked at him, and let myself accept that he was absolutely beautiful.

            When he finished tying up my hair, he said simply, “There.” He put his hands to my neck, looking my face over with some satisfaction. After a moment, he tilted his head a little, considering me, then he leaned in and kissed me.

            I didn’t do a thing. At least I didn’t pull away. The first time another man kissed me, I did nothing more than breathe, the rest of the world disappearing. It honestly did. I couldn’t hear anything, I couldn’t feel anything, except his mouth on mine, his hands on my neck, and it was like someone had cast a shield charm around us. Nothing existed outside of that moment.

            It lasted only a few seconds, but in some way it will always feel like the moment is still occurring. Like it will last forever. He gave me a smile, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, then he walked away.

            I watched, the cheeks of his arse trembling slightly as he went, and I realized I was smiling fit to burst. No shame. No hating myself. Just happiness. I bit into my lip, wrapping my arms around myself, and realized that maybe I wasn’t entirely a lost cause.

            I still have that silly hair tie.

 

“Hear me out,” Jason says, perching on the desk.

            I look up from the bank reconciliation. “This can’t be good, if you’re leading with that.”

            Wincing, he leans over. “I kind of like the MadaCide wipes.”

            “Oh Jesus,” I mutter, putting my head in my hands.

            “I had to use them eventually—“

            “We’re not paying a thousand dollars every go for disposable _wipes_ —“

            “I’m not saying that—“

            “Just wash with the regular stuff. We’ve the laundry for the cloths. It’s not ecologically sensible to use disposable wipes. You can’t convince me.”

            “I’m not saying we use them all the time. I’m just saying that I like them.”

            I eye him, then circle an incorrect amount from our side. “That’s fine. I liked that shirt your idiot nephew had with Frankenstein’s monster on it. Doesn’t mean I’m going to buy it and wear it every day.” Jiggling the pen between my index and middle finger, I nod towards the chairs. “Your one o’clock is here, if you want to get going.”

            “In a minute.”

            He looks happy. Strangely happy. And he looks like he wants me to ask about it. “Something on your mind?”

            Jason smiles crookedly, then leans over. “I have a date.”

            That’s certainly news. I settle back in my chair, and it bounces a little under the action. “I don’t understand. You actually look pleased about it.” Usually when one of us sets Jason up on a date, he’s incredibly reluctant about the whole thing, and he’s so miserable that the other guy never wants to see him again.

            “I am pleased, Draco. I’m actually really pleased with myself right now.”

            “Tell me more.” The woman waiting for her koi fish tattoo looks impatient, but she can fucking wait. This is far more important.

            “You know that restaurant that opened up near my place? Szábo’s? Slovakian fusion.”

            Slovakian fusion. Only in Brooklyn. “I’ve passed it a few times.”

            “Yeah, well—“ Jason shrugs, a bit sheepish. “I’ve been going in a lot. The owner, he, uh—“ For a second, Jason doesn’t say anything. Then he laughs. “God, it’s been so long since I’ve done this.”

            I kick him lightly in the ankle. “The owner,” I encourage.

            “Yeah, he’s—I mean, he’s a babe. Total babe. Slovakian and Ecuadoran. Born and raised by the docks. He’s got a real accent on him. It’s fucking adorable.” Jason has his arms crossed, nodding. “I’ve been going in, and—we talk, and I thought maybe I was nuts, that I was just imagining things, but—“

            “Excuse me,” says the koi woman.

            “He’ll be right with you,” I say.

            Jason laughs. “I’ll be just a second, Holly, I promise.”

            I nudge him in the side. “And?”

            “And last night, I—he came over, like he usually does, only he sat down and we were talking, and finally I just asked if he wanted to go out sometime.”

            “You asked?” I say, amazed and pleased.

            “I did,” Jason answers, proud.

            “How’d he say yes?”

            “It was actually pretty fucking cute. He said—oh, how’d he put it again? So he kind of—slumped, and he said, ‘Thank God, I thought I was gonna have to actually throw myself across the table at you.’”

            I crack up, and so does Jason. “That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you!”

            “Ah, it’s just a date,” he says, but we know it’s more than that. I can’t help it. I roll my chair over and wrap my arms around his soft middle. At first, Jason doesn’t move. The he pats me on the head. “Aw—what’s this for?”

            Face pressed to his side, I reply, “You deserve to be happy. I’m pleased for you, is all.”

            I let him go, and Jason is actually blushing a bit. I think of what I was like when we first met, and the idea that I can make Jason turn red makes me want to snicker. “Hey—thanks for putting up with me this last year. I’ve been kind of rough.” He pauses. “Fuck it, let’s be honest—the last three years. You’ve put up with a lot.”

            “You’re family,” I say. “I love you to pieces.” I give his hip a push. “Now go to work, you lazy bitch.”

            He grins, then gets up, hollering for the women to go in and get her sodding koi tattoo. I return to the reconciliation, feeling much better about life.

            Jason Marley. Going on a date because he actually wants to. Stranger things.

 

“At least you look marginally better than last time,” I say upon seeing Harry.

            He sits down, wary as always. Are those new Cannons boxers? Yes they are. These ones have snitches on them. I meet his eyes, and he looks back, defiant. I shrug. To each person their own terrible taste.

            Studying my nails, I say, “ _Well_. I finally had a text from Us this evening. Asking me if Merlin was real. He was being cheeky, and I think he might have been drunk. Want to hear how I handled that one? I don’t think I did very well, so you might enjoy it.”

            He doesn’t say anything, so I look up. Harry’s watching me, and he’s strung like a taut wire. He seems to be waiting on me to say something. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for. Besides knowing that he hates me for ridiculous reasons, I really don’t have a handle on the man.

            “If you’re going to take the piss out of me,” Harry says, “I’d prefer we do it right away.”

            “Why do you think I’d do that?”

            “Don’t pretend. You bloody know why.”

            I roll my eyes. “Oh God. You think I care that you’ve come on another man? I really don’t. There are plenty of things I care about in life, but who you have orgasms with is not on the list.”

            “You’ve been having a go at me all summer about it.”

            “Only because you were clearly uncomfortable, and if I understand you better, than maybe I can get you to understand me better. No matter how much you may be opposed to it.”

            “I _do_ want to get out of here,” Harry insists, and there’s something desperate in his eyes.

            I sigh, and lean forward, looking in his eyes. “Then _listen_ to me. I—am Draco Malfoy. I was the boy you hated when you were a boy too, but we’re not children anymore. I’m an adult. I’m a different person, other than hanging onto the good bits—and maybe you don’t think there were good bits, but there are. I’m tenacious. I’m clever. I’ve a survival instinct like you’d not believe. But beyond all that—beyond this—“ I gesture between the two of us. “I am just a normal person.” I snap my fingers at him before he can turn his attention away. “Listen. I like fizzy drinks, and I didn’t know what sugar would do to my teeth, so I had to have a root canal when I was twenty four. My favourite colour is green. When I see someone acting rude in public, I point it out and loudly because I can’t abide that kind of behaviour. I wear boots, even in summer, and when I go out I have to be covered in sunscreen, so from May to September, I smell like a coconut. Whenever I go out to the bar with my friend Leanna I always say I won’t do shots, but I always do, and she knows it. I’m just—I’m just a normal person. I am.”

            He doesn’t believe me. I’m not sure I believe me either, but every person is weird. Every person is a little bit strange. Some are stranger than others. How the hell do I reach him? How do I make him understand?

            In frustration, I say, “The first man I ever kissed was a dancer at a bar when I was twenty two.”

            That gets his attention. It looks like he wishes it didn’t, but his eyes move back to mine. Is this what he needs to talk about? Does he not have anyone back home who he can talk to about being queer or whatever he wants to call himself? If he wants to call himself anything at all. Do I need to be that person?

            Maybe I do. Trying not to spook him, I ask, “Who was the first man you ever kissed?”

            He bends his head down, hair falling across his forehead. “I don’t want to talk about that,” he murmurs.

            I’m exasperated. I’m not sure what else I can do here. It’s been over two months and sometimes I feel like we haven’t gotten anywhere. “What _do_ you want to talk about?”

            He looks at me from under his fringe. There’s a shift in his eyes. Something in them hardens.

            “I want to talk about Gregory Goyle,” Harry says quietly.

            Good lord, he didn’t get it off with Greg, did he? No. No, definitely not. I’m not going to suggest that. “What about him?”

            “I want to talk about what a nice, normal man he turned out to be. Do you want to do that?”

            This is a trap. I can tell by the tone of his voice and the set of his jaw. But it is rare that he tries to lead the conversation, instead of me dragging him forward kicking and screaming. “If you like.”

            “Do you know what happened to Goyle after the war?”

            “No. I have the suspicion you’re about to tell me, though.”

            Harry breaks with tradition. He leans forward, looking directly into my eyes as he speaks. “Six months house arrest. He was finished by March, and off he went. Not a lot of opportunities for someone like him. Aligned with the Death Eaters, even if he didn’t have the mark. So what’s he end up doing?”

            A few seconds go by. “Am I supposed to guess?”

            “Construction. Muggle construction.”

            “Con—structing Muggles?”

            “Construction,” Harry snaps. “Without magic. The men you see wearing reflective vests and hard hats and the like. Usually standing around instead of actually doing anything, and when the building is suddenly there you know the only realistic way is by house elves.”

            “Makes sense. Not that bright. He was never scared of physical work.”

            “Yes, well—he works in construction a few years, and does all right, and what’s he do next?” I don’t guess this time, because I can see that he wants to be angry. He wants to work himself up about whatever’s happened, and I just need to be quiet. “Gets married. Foreman’s daughter. Muggle. She’s no idea he’s a wizard. By all accounts, they’re happy. He starts his own construction business. Everyone says he was good at his job. Completely ordinary. No complaints. Just a normal man with a normal life. Right?”

            I keep my mouth shut.

            Harry is starting to breathe heavily. I don’t know why—it’s not like we have to breathe here. The brain is reluctant to let go of the illusion of physicality, I guess.

            “Goyle and his wife, they have a baby. Then another one, the year after. Perfect life, perfect family, by all accounts. A few years go by, and all of a sudden things are breaking in the house. Oldest kid is a witch, and Goyle finally has to tell his wife he’s a wizard, and the kids probably both have magic. She doesn’t take it well. Says he lied, that he’s not who he said he was. That it’s his fault there’s something wrong with the kids. She kicks him out.

            “Economy tanks. Business isn’t as busy as it used to be. Wife files for divorce. Doesn’t want to let him see the kids. Money’s going into the court case. He hasn’t seen his kids in months. His ex father in law thinks he did something, cheated on his daughter or the like, so he spreads the word, make sure no one goes to Goyle for work. Business starts to go under. He doesn’t have the money to fight the court case anymore. Completely loses custody of his kids. He moves back in with his mother. It’s three weeks before Christmas. They find out the mother’s terminally ill. It’s two weeks before Christmas. He decides to go out, buy her a gift, something to send to the kids too. Told her he’d be back in an hour.

            “I’m on Diagon Alley. Christmas shopping. Should have just gone to Edinburgh—or shopped online—but no. There I am, on Diagon Alley. I’m just walking by, and I look over, and I see a face I’ve not seen in years. He’s staring at me, and I just give a nod, and I say, ‘Happy Christmas,’ and I keep walking. A moment later, I hear feet behind me, and Goyle says my name. He says, ‘Harry.’ He’d never done that before, not in all the years I knew him. So I turned around, and he blew both of us up.”

            I—don’t understand. “He what?”

            “Pointed his wand at himself, muttered a spell I couldn’t even hear, and the next thing I know I’m at King’s Cross— _again_ —only this time I’m talking to my father.”

            I cover my mouth, wide eyed. “Holy shit.”

            “We have a talk, and—“ He gives his head an angry shake, almost as if he needs to steer the conversation back. “Then I’m back, and it’s about ten seconds after he went off like a bomb. There’s a crater in the middle of Diagon Alley, and you know why I’m fucking alive?” Before I can get out a syllable, Harry says, choked, “Because a nineteen year old girl named Astrid O’Donnell saw what he was about to do and got between me and him before I could even see her. She took the full force of what was meant for me. There wasn’t even a piece of her to bury. At least the others who were killed—and there _were_ others—there were at least pieces. Arms and legs—I couldn’t hear a thing, my ears were—ringing so loudly, but I swear to God, I could hear the screaming—“

            I don’t think, I just reach out for him. “Harry—“

            He scrambles away from me, getting to his feet. His eyes are shining and livid. “Don’t touch me!”

            My hands are in the open air. With a sigh, I say, “I can’t. I forgot, I can’t touch you.”

            “I don’t want your filthy Death Eater hands on me! That’s what you are—that’s what you all are. You all—“ He throws an arm out. “You say, I’m better now, I’m changed, I’m normal, and then you go off and you rape a muggle or you kill a unicorn or you kill five fucking people two weeks before Christmas on _Diagon Alley_ and you think any amount of talking in circles is going to convince me any differently?!” He’s shouting at me now, struggling for breath. I want to get up, I want to try and calm him down, but I can’t. There’s no way for me to do that. “You’re all evil! You’re fucking evil, and the worst is when you sit there and try to explain yourself and pretend like you’re something you’re not, but I see through you! I’ve seen what you are from the moment I met you, and you’re nothing! You’re NOTHING!”

            Harry turns away and walks as far from me as he can, stopping abruptly before he goes through the wall. He grabs onto the back of his neck with both hands, and shakes.

            So.

            I give him a moment—particularly because I believe he might be crying a little—but I have to do something. Silence is not an option. Not this time.

            I push myself to my feet, slipping my hands into the pockets of my trousers. Taking a deep breath, I walk across the ground to him. I can hear his shivery little breaths. I have to say something to him. Doesn’t matter that I don’t like him—

            Oh, fuck it. Maybe I do. He’s an idiot, but he’s not a bad person. He’s just dreadfully damaged, like the rest of us.

            I look at the back of his neck. He needs a haircut. I mean, only an act of God could do something about that hair, but he has small ones along his neck that need to be shaved. I don’t suppose I’ve stood behind him like this before.

            “Do you think I don’t worry about that?” I ask quietly. Harry hunches in on himself slightly, wanting to get away from my voice. He can’t escape in here, though. “Do you honestly think I’m convinced that I’ll never hurt anyone ever again? That I won’t lose control? Because I’m not.”

            His chin tilts down, ever so slightly and to the side. Like he’s listening.

            Sighing, I say, “You remember the Quidditch World Cup? Remember what happened after? I saw my father torture children. My father. That’s in my veins. There’s no running from what’s inside me. And maybe there is a part of me that’s just—wrong. That’s part of why I don’t want children of my own. I don’t want this to go any further. It stops with me. If you think, though, that I’m claiming that I’m perfect—that I’ll never do something ugly ever again—I’m not. I’ve seen people…that I loved, do things that are unconscionable. I know no one’s immune. I can’t make you a promise that I’ll never do something terrible again. It would be dishonest, because I honestly don’t know, Harry. But I’m trying. I’m trying every single day, and I have been, for years now. I’ll keep trying, for as long as I live.”

            The trembling has settled a bit. He turns a bit, so that I can just see the side of his face. He swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. Rolling his shoulder, he shuffles his feet a little more, so I can look at him again.

            Harry Potter. The man who lived. Poor bugger.

            “You don’t have to believe I’m perfect,” I say, and he barks. “Because Christ knows I’m not. I’m just—a man who’s trying to do the best he can. I just—need you to see that.”

            And I realize that I’m not talking about the spell. I need him to see me. It’s been a long time since someone hated me for things I’ve done, things that I ought to be hated for. I live with my past, I’ve come to terms with it. The thing is, I’ve not come to terms with him. I think I need that. No idea why, but the heart wants what the heart wants, after all. For whatever reason, I have to square things with this man.

            Harry inhales, and his green eyes glance at me. “I don’t know if I have it in me,” he admits.

            I shrug. “No harm in trying, is there? Though to be honest, things might have gone a little faster if you’d told me any of this two months ago. ‘Malfoy, I hate you personally because you were a shitty child, but also because one of your school mates tried to kill me fairly recently.’” He smiles wanly, putting a hand to his forehead. I bend down, trying to catch his eye. “I probably could have used that information, couldn’t I.”

            Harry drops his hand. He looks—lost.

            For a moment, I reach out to touch his arm. I’ve forgotten again. Instead, I simply hold a hand behind his back. “Why don’t we sit and you can tell me some more about wandmaking?”

            “I don’t….”

            “You don’t what?”

            “I don’t know what to do when you’re _kind_.”

            I roll my eyes, and pivot, prompting him forward without being able to touch him. “Trust me, it’s still a surprise to myself.”

            I get him to sit down. He’s fragile, and I half expect him to start crying. But it’s Harry Potter, and I think he’s convinced he shouldn’t give me the satisfaction. Or maybe not just me. Anyone. He buckles down and he tells me about wands.

            I’m well behaved. I pay attention. I also think.

            Gregory Goyle. Fuck.

            I’m so goddamn glad I left England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were so many comments yesterday, and it warmed my black little heart. If you keep it up, I promise there will be gold stars for everyone.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks,  
> A reminder that there will not be warnings for specific chapters. To do so would basically tell you what's about to happen, and that isn't how I tell stories. All warnings are listed at the beginning of the story, and I've updated it slightly to make the warnings more clear to readers.  
> If you are unduly uncomfortable with discussions of homophobia, racism, social injustice, mental illness, violence, self harm, suicide, and death, please please stop reading, as there will continue to be all these things going forward. My feelings will not be hurt if you have to stop reading (as someone who's dealt with many of these things for many years, I completely understand), but more importantly your feelings and wellbeing will not be hurt.  
> Thank you for sticking with me, for understanding how I've chosen to tell this story and explore these themes, and please take care of yourselves.  
> 

“How’s Us?”

            Evan looks at me, concerned. “Are you guys…uh…not talking?” He looks like he already knows the answer.

            “I’d be happy to speak to him. He just doesn’t want to speak to me.”

            “Oh.”

            “Are you two speaking?”

            “I guess. We were supposed to work on his Legos yesterday…but he bailed.”

            “I’m sorry to hear that.”

            Evan shrugs. “It’s fine,” he murmurs. It’s ninety above, and the child is wearing three layers, even though he’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat. I’ve told him before there’s no sin in airing out his arms, but he just smiles queasily, and I’m not exactly in a position to lecture him on what he wears. I wasn’t comfortable showing my forearms in public until I was twenty three. And don’t even get me started on my calves. Evan swallows. “I was gonna show him my new drawings.”

            “What have you got?”

            “Bank of America Tower,” he says bashfully.

            “I’d like to see that.”

            “It’s at home.”

            “Maybe you can bring it the next time I see you.”

            We walk a few more feet, then Evan says, “Do you want to come up and see it?”

            I’m a little surprised—in nearly three months, this is the first time he’s asked me into the apartment. I’m always a fan of progress, though, so I smile and say, “That would be lovely.”

            So ten minutes later, I’m sitting in a chair against the wall of his almost painfully neat room. “It doesn’t always look like this,” Evan told me somewhat sheepishly. “Mom’s made me keep it like this all summer.” I suppose I was stereotyping a little—I expected some death metal posters on his wall, a lot of black. Nothing of the sort. His walls are empty, save a few neatly pinned-up pictures of skyscrapers. His bed covers are blue, and the bed is perfectly made. His furniture is all pine, and it’s been recently dusted.

            I continue flipping through the large sketchbook in my lap. It’s heavy from all the pictures he’s torn from magazines and pasted in. There are a lot of sketches of buildings that I recognize, but several that are completely foreign to me. I asked what they were of, and he blushed and he said he came up with the designs himself.

            He sits on the edge of the bed with his hands between his knees. He looks uncomfortable in his own room. I almost want to tell his mother to let him throw some things on the floor, if that’s what he wants to do. A person shouldn’t feel out of place in their own bedroom. It’s a little cooler inside than out, and he’s still in his many layers.

            “What’s this style called again?” I turn the book to show him what I mean.

            “Art Deco.”

            “Ah. You like that, then?”

            Evan gives a little shrug, chewing at the side of his mouth. “I like how…dramatic it is. I guess.”

            “That, young man, is the first time I think I’ve ever heard you say you like something dramatic.”

            “A lot of styles that came after—they were pretty boring. I mean—I know I’m not supposed to say anything, but….”

            Curious, I prompt, “But?”

            Already looking remorseful, Evan says, “The Twin Towers were really ugly.” I have to bite into my lower lip. “Like— _really_ ugly. I know I’m a bad person for saying that—“

            “No. A hundred people could die when a sewage treatment plant collapses on them, but you don’t exonerate the beauty of the treatment plant afterwards. You exonerate the dead.” I pause, lifting my head. “That was a terrible metaphor. I’m not saying that what they did in the towers was comparable to sewage treatment. They did all sorts of—important things there. I assume.” I admit, “I don’t actually know. I came here the year after. As it stands, don’t bloody tell anyone I compared the Twin Towers to a sewage treatment facility.”

            Evan is a smiling that cautious little smile of his. “I won’t tell.”

            “What do you think of the designs for the replacement?”

            He gives a lackadaisical shrug. “It’s okay. I really liked the Foster design. That’s the one I wanted.” I raise a brow at him. Evan frowns. “What?”

            “Where is it?”

            He realizes what I mean, and he lets out a bit of a laugh. That’s all I ever get from Evan. His laugh is a bit of a single sigh, a quick show of the teeth. Sometimes Victor can make him give a little giggle, but that’s it. I’m determined that eventually I’ll make Evan laugh like that. Not sure how I’ll do it, but it feels like a noble goal.

            “It’s in my other book,” Evan says, getting up. He leans over the small bookcase next to me, looking for something.

            I flip the page, and snort. “Is this—“ I reach over to poke his arm, and I’m going to say, ‘The gherkin?’

            Only he startles away from me, drawing his arm up close and looking at me with wide eyes.

            After a second, he slumps a bit, despair filling his eyes. I close the book, looking him in the face to make sure. Yes. I’m sure.

            I cover my mouth with my hand, rubbing under my chin with my thumb. I didn’t expect to have to do this today, but—it never happens when you suspect it, does it. Lifting my hand, I say, “Show me your arm.” Evan doesn’t move, just gazes at me with pleading eyes. “That wasn’t a suggestion, Evan.”

            Looking away from me, shame filling his face, he pulls the sleeve of his hoodie up to his elbow, and shows me his forearm.

            Christ.

            “Okay. You can put it back down.” He yanks the sleeve all the way over the end of his hand, blushing furiously. Keeping my voice steady, I say, “Sit down, please.” Evan goes back to sitting on the side of the bed. He’s making himself as small as possible, like he can will himself out of existence.

            Setting the book down on the ground, I pick up my chair and move it forward a few feet, then sit down so that my knees are nearly touching his. I know that he’s not going to be able to look at me, so I need to be directly in front of him, where he can’t escape.

            “You said you weren’t doing that anymore.”

            “I wasn’t,” he whispers.

            “You told Therese you weren’t. You told me. You told your mother—“

            “I _wasn’t_ ,” Evan insists.

            It certainly looked new. “What’s your other arm look like?” He shakes his head, and I have to fight hard not to sigh. All right. Gentle. “We talked about this.”

            “Don’t tell my mom.”

            “Evan—I am going to tell your mother. I have to.”

            “Please don’t.”

            “Evan—we’re trying to keep you alive—“

            “Don’t.”

            “No. Not an option.”

            He’s shaking his head again, only this time he doesn’t stop. “Doesn’t matter,” he breathes.

            “What doesn’t matter?”

            All of a sudden, he bursts out, still quiet, “It doesn’t matter. Nobody would care.”

            “ _No_. People would care, Evan. Your mother would be heartbroken—“

            “She wouldn’t have to worry about me being a fuck up anymore—“

            “No, listen. She would be heartbroken. She would not recover. This would literally haunt her every moment until she died. You don’t want to listen to me, but you need to listen. You don’t get to write yourself off by telling yourself that she’d be happier with you gone. It would be literally the opposite. Don’t do that to your mother. She loves you so much. Don’t hurt her like that.” He’s rocking himself, and I’m not sure what to do. “If you were gone, so many people would care. Do you understand that? Your mother—me—“

            “You don’t care!”

            Stung, I say, “Of course I do.”

            “You said I was a freak!”

            How did I not know that careless phrasing would come around to bite me in the rear? “And I’m not perfect, am I. I’m very much the opposite. I don’t always say the right thing. Sometimes—I say the absolute wrong thing, even when I think I’m saying the right thing.”

            He’s started to cry. “Then how do you know you’re saying the right thing now, huh? Maybe you _don’t_ mean it. Everybody hates me.”

            “No—“

            “They hate me, and I hate _them_ —“

            “Evan—“

            “I hate them!” he hiccups. A wildness comes to his eyes that I’ve never seen there before. “I wish they were dead. I want to kill them, I want to blow their fucking heads off their bodies—I’d kill her first—“

            I grab him by the sides of the head, forcing his face up. “ _No_ ,” I say strongly. “Evan. _No_.”

            He stares at me with his leaking green eyes and _I don’t know what to do_. What do I do with this child? This child who’s almost a man, who wants to kill people, who could kill people, who could kill other children. How do I fix this? How do I make him better?

            What if I obliviate him? I could obliviate the last four years off him—his father died, that’s when things went wrong—if I did that, maybe he could try again—

            No! Jesus Christ, what am I thinking?! The problem is now, the problem is real, problems don’t just go away with the wave of a magic wand. I know that. I _know_ that.

            “Listen,” I say, and I don’t know what I’m going to tell him, any more than he knows what I’m about to say. “Listen to me. I know—exactly how you are feeling right now. I know how angry you are—how scared you are, and I know it seems like—ending everything, ending them, that would make things better or easier and it _doesn’t_. I am telling you this, and I’m not telling you like the others are telling you, because they’re scared of what you could do, I’m telling you because I was you and I know where this leads. If you keep down this road, it gets uglier than you could ever imagine. It hurts so much right now, I know it does, but if you don’t stop, if you don’t listen to me, it is going to get so much worse. If you kill them, if you kill yourself, it doesn’t end. It doesn’t. I’ve died. I’ve seen what happens next, and I swear to you—you’d wish more than anything that you could take it all back, but you can’t, you can’t, and you’re there _forever,_ and it’s dark and it’s awful and you will never be forgiven. Do you understand me, Evan?” I give him a jolt. “Evan, tell me you understand!”

            He gasps. His face starts to crumple. “I don’t understand.”

            He’s starting to fall apart. I loosen my hold on him—fuck, I was probably hurting him. Instead, I put my hands to both sides of his face. I can’t keep the desperation from my voice. “Evan—my boy. My boy, you—you are worthy of life. The world wants you to live. I want you to live. You don’t have to be this. I promise you—Evan, I _promise_ —you don’t have to be this.”

            It’s like the bones have gone out of his body. He starts to droop forward, and I have to catch him. His head rests against my chest, and he starts to cry as hard as anyone I’ve ever seen in my life. I swallow, and I realize I’m shaking. I inhale, trying to keep myself steady.

            I startle when I feel his fingers on my arms. He’s trying to hold onto me.

            I hold him back.

 

The day we went into confinement, I stayed outside the line of the barrier for as long as I could. They had outlined it in red. No way to miss how far we were allowed from the manor. It was all of ten meters.

            Mother stood on the steps, watching me. She had gone home with her head high, not betraying a hint of emotion, even to me.

            I couldn’t bring myself to go closer. There were two Aurors standing nearby. The one was an impatient middle aged man with hair coming out of his ears, the other was a woman who was about ten years old than I was, with yellow eyes.

            Finally, I said, pleading, “Do you know what he did in there? I can’t—please, I can’t go in there—“

            “Should have thought of that,” the man said gruffly, “before you put that filthy thing on your arm.”

            The woman glanced at him with a frown, then spoke to me, her voice a touch gentle. “You have to go in. Soon as you do, the clock starts. Sooner you go in, sooner you can come out.”

            “Five years,” I said, verging on hysterical.

            The man rolled his eyes, then took out his wand. With a flick, I went sailing across the yard, falling in a tumble.

            I heard Mother yell, “How dare you!” and I heard her clicking steps down the stone stairs, but I wasn’t paying attention to her. I was looking up as the barrier came down. It shone a crackling red. For a moment, I thought wildly that it was the same colour of the Dark Lord’s eyes, and I wondered if they had meant for that.

            Mother wrapped her arms around me, brushing off my clothes. From the other side of the barrier, the man called, “Remember—you touch it, you get shocked, and we have to come over here from the Ministry. Do anything stupid, like try to push through, and you’ll get yourself killed. So frankly, do us all a favour and try.”

            The woman added, “Grocery will be delivered every Monday at nine, remember. If you have any messages to send out, make sure they’re waiting there when the transfer occurs.”

            With that, they apparated, and Mother and I were left alone.

            I didn’t want to go inside. Mother had to hold me by the arm, coaxing me the entire way. Told me we had to go in, that we had no other choice, that it was supposed to rain, that I had to come in. I stepped foot inside and almost collapsed.

            Every inch of that place was a terrible memory. Someone screaming, someone hurting, someone dying. I didn’t know how much Potter had really seen, but I had seen so much—more than a person should ever have to bear. Just stepping inside, I could see splashes of dried blood on the walls. I remembered how that happened. Greyback. He hadn’t been able to wait until he got past the foyer to have a snack.

            I curled up into a ball and rocked myself, saying over and over again, “I can’t do this.”

            But we were prisoners. There was no choice of whether I could do it or not. We simply had to.

           

From the start, it was obvious that we were in trouble. Neither of us knew how to cook. House elves had always done that. The cleaning too. Food was the more pressing concern at first. I carried the groceries inside, and Mother looked at them with disdain. She was not one for ever entering the kitchens. Until that exact moment, I had never even seen her in the kitchen before. Mother sniffed, unloading the vegetables. Her hand stilled on a potato, and I could see a vein pulse in her forehead.

            I said, “How do….”

            Not only were we without house elves, we were without magic. Most wizards and witches have no idea how to cook without magic, and there we were in a house that had no electricity. Everything had been heated and lit with fire. Now we were in this cold, empty house with no fires lit. And raw meat.

            “They know that we don’t have the means to deal with this,” Mother said grimly. “They’re trying to starve us.” I shuddered. It sounded like a thing they would do. Mother merely tossed back her hair. “I refuse to starve to death as a result of blood traitor pettiness.” She picked up a package of raw chicken. “Do you think the peacocks will eat this?”

            “They will or they’ll die.”

            So we subsisted on raw vegetables and fruit for the next week, and before the next round of groceries came, Mother left all the rotting meat where the transfer would occur, along with a strongly worded letter. They just sent us more meat.

            The next problem was cleaning. We had running water, but that was the only utility we did possess, and it wasn’t warm. When we went in, in summer, it was fine, but fall came early that year, and it was a wet one. Neither of us knew anything about cleaning, except to tell the house elves what they had done wrong about it.

            We were hopelessly ignorant. The same first grocery order, there was a package of twelve cylinders of paper. I read off it, clueless, “Bathroom tissue.” I looked at Mother. “I don’t understand.”

            She gazed at it blankly, and I watched the barest of shivers work through her. “We’ve no wand to share anymore, darling. We can’t use a cleaning spell during our daily ablutions.”

            I didn’t understand. Until I did. In utter disgust, I looked between her and the package. “You mean—we’re supposed to—“

            “I’m afraid so.”

            “That’s—“ Losing my patience, I said, “Fucking mudbloods!” Mother put a hand to my arm. “I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t mean to curse.” Shaking my head, I turned the package over in my hand. “How do mudbloods even _walk_ upright?”

            “They are hideous creatures,” she agreed.

            We were so used to garbage being taken away that we didn’t know what to do about it. We literally did not know what to do. So we just left things where they lay. The kitchen began to smell of rot, as fruit peels turned grey and shrivelled, and we said nothing about it. We wore shoes everywhere, and just kicked the detritus off to the side whenever we entered a litter strewn room.

            We both of us had more clothes than most shops, so the first month or so we were fine. Every day we would wear something new. Mother insisted we put everything away exactly as we had taken it out, so that nothing would wrinkle unduly.

            But in the evenings, she would wear the same robe she had always worn. It was white, and it had been a gift from her mother on her and Father’s wedding day. She had always kept it spotless and fine with spells. Now, though, I could see little smudges of dirt here and there. I was so embarrassed that I didn’t dare say anything.

            One night, about a month and a half into our confinement, we were sitting in one of the drawing rooms. I could barely move, because I was so exhausted. I was always exhausted. Mother was reading, sipping from a glass of wine. They had, blessedly, left our wine cellar intact, but Mother’s rules were one glass a day, no more.

            The house was covered in dust by then, and everything had a vaguely rumpled look. Things were cast on the ground, cushions, books. Neither of us picked things up. We’d been taught not to.

            And I sneezed. Just a single sneeze.

            Mother started, and some of the wine splashed out of her glass. It struck the left breast of her robe. The both of us stared at the spot.

            My jaw seemed heavy. I forced it open. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, horrified.

            Mother didn’t reply. She kept looking at the blemish for so long that I grew scared. Very carefully, she set down her glass. “Just a spot,” she said, and her voice was eerily vacant. Pushing herself to her feet, she turned to leave the room. “Just a spot.”

            I never expected to see the robe again. But the next night, at eight o’clock, same as always, she appeared in the white robe. She said nothing about it, simply picked up her book and continued reading.

            Every night, she wore the white robe as it grew increasingly less white. It collected stains. It grew dirty. Eventually, it was grey.

            It was a harbinger of things to come.

           

I was not doing well. The manor—it was huge. It was too large for just two people, and everywhere I turned was another gruesome memory waiting for me. I could remember days when the house was full and times were happy. I could remember times when the house was full and every day was a living nightmare. Now the house was empty and dead and Mother and I were the ghosts haunting it.

            The diet of naught but raw vegetables and fruit made me tired, and so I spent most of my days in bed with a headache. It only exacerbated the problem. My nights were filled with bad dreams, and I grew tired of waking Mother up with my terrors, so I started sleeping in one of the guest rooms in another wing.

            It was where my aunt had stayed. Everything black, of course. Plenty of lace. It smelled a bit like her too. Kind of like absinthe. I laid in the ebony four poster bed and stared at the wall. The wallpaper pattern had screaming faces on it. From the stupidity in their eyes, I assumed they were supposed to be muggles. Leave it to Aunt Bellatrix to feel comfy in a room filled with thousands of screaming muggles.

            I started to not change my clothes. There didn’t seem to be a point. Mother was wearing the same dirty robe every evening as a matter of pride. I couldn’t be bothered to change my clothes. The first time I didn’t, she said, “Weren’t you wearing that yesterday, darling?”

            I took a pointed look at her robe, which had a new spot of grime on the shoulder, and said, “Shall we have that conversation?”

            We didn’t.

            The first two months, she insisted we have time together in the morning and evenings. But I started to not leave bed at all in the mornings. Or night would roll around and I was too tired to raise my head off the pillow. My limbs were too heavy to move. Mother would knock on the door, and ask if I was all right. Sometimes I replied. Sometimes I didn’t.

            All the while, I was remembering.

            Fall came with a thunderstorm that woke me in the middle of the night. I realized that I’d wet the bed. Another new development in the ever declining fortunes of the Malfoy dynasty. I simply changed my clothes and moved into another room.

            The rains continued, unabated, and we shivered and shook, wrapping ourselves in blankets and fur coats. Every fireplace had wood in it, but we had no way to light a fire. Matches were not a thing we had ever kept in the house. Mother said, “I wonder how I shall read when winter comes,” but that was all she said on the subject.

            I tried to accept that we were going to spend more than half our lives in darkness. Every day, the amount of light grew less.

            One evening, in the drawing room, we lifted our heads at the exact same moment. It was growing dark, too dark to read, but Mother had kept her book open nonetheless, squinting at the page. We couldn’t see what the noise had been, but it came again a moment later. A kind of rhythmic _plunk_.

            Mother pushed herself up, going to the corner. I followed after a moment, head swimming. When I got close enough, I could see what was happening. The ceiling was leaking. Water was dripping onto the stone floor.

            Gazing upwards, I said, “I don’t know how to fix that.”

            “Neither of us do.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            Mother turned to me, frowning. “What for, dear?”

            She was shorter than me. I knew that—intellectually, I knew that—but for some reason I had forgotten. I gazed at her, thinking about how I was taller than my mother, and that I couldn’t cook or keep her warm and I was an adult. I was an adult and I couldn’t do anything.

            As ashamed as I had ever been, I said, “I can’t take care of you.”

            Mother gazed at me, then she took me by the lapels. “I take care of _you_ ,” she said fiercely.

            “Father—told me—“

            “Your father,” she said dismissively. Mother shook her head. “ _You_ —are _my_ —responsibility. It does not matter how old you are, where you go—what you do—you are my first—my best—“

            She let me go, stepping back, and took a shaky breath. Worried, I said, “Mother?”

            She passed a hand over her face. When she dropped it, Mother said, “Draco—you need to leave the room.”

            “What? Why?”

            “You need to go.”

            “No,” I said, frightened. “No—whatever it is, I’m not—I can’t leave you.”

            For a moment, she wavered. “Stay there,” she said, and walked around me.

            “Mother—“

            “Stay there, Draco,” she snapped, and when my mother used that tone, I listened.

            She stood in front of the dark fireplace, gazing at the dusty wood. Her slender hands made fists, and I saw her swallow, as if she was steeling herself for something. Or like she was holding something back.

            All of a sudden, she convulsed. Leaning forward, Mother outstretched her arms and screamed, screamed in a way I had never heard before. There was a ripple in the dark, and the fireplace nearly exploded with flame. I jumped away, shocked, as the fire drew back almost as suddenly as it had appeared. It crackled, lighting the room, bringing us warmth.

            Mother wavered a moment in front of the lit fireplace, then slumped to the ground.

            “Mother!” I ran to her, dropping to my knees, and lifted her up. What I saw scared me. Blood was leaking from her ears—from the insides of her eyes. She stared blankly at the ceiling, unseeing. I was frightened to touch her face, but I did. “Mother? Mother, can you hear me?”

            Slowly, she blinked. Raspily, she said, “We…mustn’t….”

            “What? We mustn’t what?”

            “Let…the fire…go out.”

            “No—no, we won’t. Don’t do that again.” I pulled her up to my chest, skeletal hands clutching her shoulders. “Don’t ever do that again.”

            “Keep you safe,” she mumbled. She tried to reach up, to touch me, but her hand fell back down. Dazed, she tried to meet my eyes. “Like…like the….”

            I could see what she wanted to say, and I didn’t want to say it, but she needed me to. “Like the dragon, we rise.” I kissed her forehead, and I forced myself not to cry.

            After that, we kept the fires lit at all times. At least downstairs. Wherever I was—well, I didn’t really care.

           

By the fourth month, I could count every one of my ribs in the mirror, if I bothered to look. I decided I didn’t want to, so I put a sheet over it.

            I left my bed less and less. When one bedroom became too messy, or the nightmares associated with it too plentiful, I changed rooms. There was always some new place to sleep in. There was no real way to escape the memories.

            Winter came, and I’d lay in bed, exhaling frost. I would look at the mark on my arm. It was fading, but I could still make out the details. The eyes in the skull. Some of the scales on the snake. I thought about what it had been like when he touched me.

            One night I woke up, and everything was red. There was a shape in the corner—a black shape. It was him, I was convinced it was him, he had come back—I started shrieking. I shrieked and screamed until Mother came running. She threw her arms around me, saying breathlessly, “An animal ran into the barrier—that’s all—that’s all.”

            The shape in the corner was just an old robe hanging off a changing screen.

            The peacocks died within days of one another. Starved to death. I saw them out the window, laying on the grounds. It was my task to take any rotten meat to the transfer point before the groceries came. So I hauled the peacocks by their necks to the place where the groceries would come, then slipped back indoors. It was the most labour I had done in months. The longest I had been outdoors.

            More and more, I would wake in the night and think someone was in the room with me. So I wouldn’t sleep. I stopped getting into bed. Instead, I would sit in a chair for hours on end, or huddle in a corner. The moment my eyelids began to fall, I would startle awake.

            A two and a half day period went by, and when I opened my eyes, I was in my aunt’s room again. I didn’t know how I’d gotten there. Maybe I had been walking in my sleep. Chewing on my dirty nails, I began to pace the boards.

            One bowed lightly under my foot.

            Tilting my head, I went down on my knees. I almost fell over with exhaustion. I started to work at the board with my fingernails, which I had chewed into points. The nails began to chip off, but somehow I knew what I would find.

            And I did. When I finally pried up the board, I found a beautiful knife.

 

Madness, in my case, became an unstoppable descent.

            The lack of sleep made me paranoid. It also caused me to see things, and that in turn just fueled my lunacy. Sometimes I heard things. Voices. Laughing. I turned the corner once and saw Nagini coiled and waiting for me. I got down on my stomach and crawled to her.

            “You can have me,” I murmured, looking in her eyes. I smiled, giddy. “You can have me.”

            Hands were pulling me up. “Draco—Draco, what are you doing?”

            I turned, and looked at a pale woman in a black dress that was too large for her. _That’s my mother_ , I remembered. “Letting the snake eat me.”

            She did not react, not on the surface. She took my hand in both of hers and tugged me away. “Come sit down. Have something to eat.”

            Stumbling, I said, “But the snake—“

            “She’ll be here when you get back, dear.”

            Mother must have drugged my tea, because I fell asleep at the table and woke up in my own room nearly a day later. That was about the only reprieve I had until the end. After that, I wouldn’t eat or drink anything she had prepared.

            I started to think she was poisoning me. That she was slipping me sleeping potions, so the monsters would get me at night. I began to voice those opinions. She told me to stop. She told me I had to stop. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t know any better. I was half starved and had barely slept in months.

            I hid from her. I knew the house in a way she didn’t. She might have lived in the manor for twenty years, but this was the place I was born and raised. I knew every nook, every cranny that I’d found playing as a child. Places she would never think to go. I’d curl myself into a ball in the house elves’ quarters and poke myself over and over again with a pin to keep myself from falling asleep. I would climb into a trunk in the attic and think about what it sounded like when I Crucio’d a man. I’d count the dead. I’d watch them walk in front of me in procession.

            For a while, I stopped doing my chore of taking out the old meat, but then it occurred to me that Mother might be using the opportunity to conduct secret correspondence. So one night I slipped out and found the letter she always wrote, asking for no meat, for bread, for some simple fucking respect. It was exactly like I suspected. She was writing about me. She was begging them to send in a healer. She said, ‘My son is losing his mind.’

            I didn’t take it well.

 

“I’m crazy?!” I yelled, thrusting the letter into her face.

            Mother tried to calm me down, holding up her hands. “Darling, there’s no reason to shout—“

            “You think I’m a lunatic! You think I should be locked up! Guess what? It’s too late! I’m already locked up! You just don’t want me here! You probably wish I was in Azkaban and Father was here instead!”

            I’d cornered her in the kitchen, and she kept trying to subtly move me towards the exit, but I blocked her every attempt.

            She looked gaunt and exhausted, but I didn’t see that. I’d been awake well over two days, and I hadn’t eaten in longer. I hadn’t bathed in a week. I had well and truly lost it, but I couldn’t see it.

            “You know I don’t wish that—Draco, please—“

            “You’d rather he be here! He’d take care of you! That’s all you want—someone to fucking take care of you instead of doing it yourself! If you knew how to take care of us, we wouldn’t be like this! Why did you let this happen?”

            “Draco, sit down—“

            I shook my head furiously, even though it made all the colours blurry and I could feel my brain sliding from side to side. I put my hands up to my ears, crumpling the letter in my hand. “I’m not crazy—you’re crazy. You’re crazy, you’re insane, it’s your fault we’re here, it’s your fault I’m like this—“

            “Oh darling, please—please calm down—“

            “You made me like this! You let him in and he did this to me—you all did this to me and now I’m crazy and you’re _stuck with me_! You don’t get to get rid of me because I’m not perfect, you _bitch_ —“

            Mother said, “Draco, stop it! Stop—I don’t want to be rid of you—my darling, my baby, please, you’re unwell, I just want to get a healer—“

            “I hate you!” I shrieked at her. “You made me this way! I wish you’d died! We should all be dead, don’t you understand that? We’re dead—that’s where we are and we deserve it, we all deserve it. He’s dead and you’re dead and I’m dead and we should be and we are and we are and we are—“

            Her calm exterior slipped, and Mother stepped closer. “Draco—“

            I lost what minimal control I had left. “Get _away_ —“ I threw an arm out, just wanting her as far from me as possible.

            Sudden as a slap, a slice appeared across her face, and time itself slowed. Neither of us could move. For a moment, nothing happened. There was a little line, stretching from her lower left cheek all the way across her nose, to just above her right cheekbone. Any further up and she would have lost an eye.

            Then the line opened, and blood began to spill out, dripping down her face.

            Mother was too stunned to do anything at first. Finally, she lifted a quivering hand, and blood spotted her palm.

            I turned and left. She didn’t try to follow me.

            That’s when I locked myself in the bathroom with the knife.


	20. Chapter 20

Tapping through the pages on my computer, I say, “That—will be $150, love.”

            The woman with the bald head pulls out her wallet. She’s no eyebrows either, no body hair that I can see at all. First timer. But she was a dream. Knew exactly what she wanted, came in with reference images printed out, no trying to haggle about prices. Counting the money out on the counter, she murmurs, “Twenty…forty…fifty.” She pushes the money towards me. “There’s that, and—“ She holds up thirty more. “I didn’t see a tip jar.”

            With a smile, I take the money. “I’ll make sure it gets to Jason. You’re happy, though?”

            She grins, and glances down at the covered patch on her arm. “I don’t know that I could be happier. You know—I was thinking of doing something a little different, until I saw yours.”

            “Oh, really?” I hold out my arms. All my bright, slightly hazy animals. “Yes, Jason’s done all of mine.”

            “Just the way that there’s no hard lines—I really liked that.”

            “Well, I like them too. I’ll have to look at the picture of yours. Or come by when it’s healed a bit, let us know how it’s turned out.” I pat my hand on the desk. “So, you’ve got your—“

            The door opens, and Freddy steps inside.

            _Can’t use magic on people just because you hate them, can’t use magic on people just because you hate them_ —

            I turn back to the woman with a smile. “So you’ve got your aftercare sheet.”

            She lifts it. “I do.”

            “Remember, if you have any questions, any concerns, you can give us a call, or just come by. All right?”

            “You bet. Thanks again.”

            “Thank you. Have a good day,” I say, as she turns to go. Freddy steps aside to let her out the door. I keep my eyes on him like a hawk. I’ll stun him if I have to, I swear to God.

            He’s gotten a haircut, his thick brown hair shaved down on the sides and back. Ugly goddamn jeans, though. At least they’re not the ones with rhinestones on them. Clearing his throat, he says, “Jason around?”

            “I’ll get him,” I say coldly. I’m not letting him back into the studio.

            I get up and go to the doorway. Leanna’s bent over a man’s bare ass, happily chatting away as she inks a gorilla onto his skin. Isaac’s flipping through a trade mag. Rodrigo is silently tattooing a Y-incision on a twenty year old girl’s chest. Jason is cleaning down his station—with those fucking MadaCide wipes.

            “Jason,” I say, and he looks up. He glances back down at the wipe guiltily, then hides it behind his back. I roll my eyes. “Your nephew is here.”

            He sticks his head out, like he didn’t hear me correctly, as Leanna looks up over her glasses. “The hell he is,” she says, brow knitting as she takes her foot off the pedal.

            Jason grimaces at her, pointing to her client. Leanna pouts, but fires her machine back up and continues creating a monkey on a man’s bottom. Perplexed, Jason comes to the doorway as I go to sit back down.

            “Hey buddy,” Jason says cautiously.

            Freddy nods, still not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Can I—talk to you a sec?”

            _If you rehire him, I swear I will kill you both_. “I’ve got about ten minutes,” Jason says. “Let’s take a walk.”

            As he follows Freddy out the door, Jason glances at me. I point at him, mouthing, _I swear to God_. Jason rolls his eyes. I frown, and decide to shred some paper. That will make me feel better.

           

“He’s not hiring that fool back, is he?”

            “No,” I say gladly. “No. I mean, he better not or I’ll quit, but no.”

            Roderick crosses his arms on the table, shaking his head. “Some people, it’s like they wanna be taken advantage of.”

            “Jason’s been known for that, I’ll grant you. I’ve certainly taken advantage of him over the years.” Roderick gives me a strange look. “What?”

            With a slight face on, he says, “You guys haven’t—?”

            I realize what he means and gags. “No. Jesus. It would be like fucking my brother. And I come from a family where incest was encouraged, so appreciate my reaction a moment.”

            “Dude, your family’s so fucked.”

            “No kidding.”

            “So what’s the punk want, if he don’t want to be hired?”

            “Well, he wants to be hired, but nobody will hire him. I bloody said to his face, it’s a small community and word gets around. If you’re a raging cunt—“ The woman next to me coughs, and Roderick gives me a dirty look. I wince and say, “Jerk, then you’re not going to get hired by another shop. I mean, it’s New York, it’s a big place, but imagine tattooing like a small town inside that. We still all know everyone else’s business.”

            “And you’re not happy about his current situation at all.”

            Disingenuously, I say, “No.”

            He snorts. “What goes around, comes around.”

            “Karma is a bitch. So he came around, wanting to see if Jason could talk to someone, get him on somewhere.”

            “And Jason said, sure, I’ll get right on that.”

            “He told Freddy that he’d have to be hired on the basis of his work and character.”  

            “Get out.”

            “Not a word of lie.”

            “Hell. There might be hope for Jason yet.”

            I raise my shoulders, feeling rather cheerful. “Took the words right out of my mouth. Anyways, that’s my story for the day. What about you?”

            Roderick leans back, large arms crossed over his chest. “Ah—nothing much.”

            I can tell he’s lying. “I can tell you’re lying.”

            “I ain’t lying about shit.”

            “You—literally, Roderick, literally every time you lie to me, that is what you say.”

            “I don’t think you know what ‘literally’ actually means.”

            “I know exactly what it means. You look pleased about something, though, so it doesn’t look like something bad.” I prop my chin up. “I certainly know you’re not going to be paroled.”

            He barks. “That’s _cold_.”

            I shrug. “I am cold.”

            Shaking his head at me affectionately, Roderick says, “I’ll tell you about it the next time you’re here.”

            “For real?”

            “For real.” Leaning forward again, he grins. “Now—let’s talk about how you still haven’t read _Roots_.”

            I slump. “Oh—Jesus, I forgot. It’s sitting on my counter. I meant to—“

            He tsks at me. “Man, Alex Haley’s gonna haunt your ass.” He grins, showing me the dimple in his cheek.

 

I’m on the bus off the island when I turn my phone back on. It’s not like it’s a good idea to apparate on or off the island. I sit near the back, slouched down with my knees pressed up against the seat in front of me.

            Joshua has called once and texted. ‘CALL ME.’

            Smacking my head back against the seat a few times, I consider not doing it. I’m suddenly thinking about Harry’s week in Thailand. The bastard. Probably had a lurid affair with another tourist or some Thai man. Comes back all tan and happy. He doesn’t even have a job and he gets to go on vacation.

            _No one said you can’t go on vacation. You just chose not to._

To be honest, the thought hadn’t occurred to me. I spent so much of my life being useless and idle that I almost feel embarrassed by the idea of taking some time off. But I actually haven’t taken more than two days off since I started at the shop. Even when I went to Philadelphia, it was for the convention, and I was being paid to work the whole time.

            _Can’t go now. School’s starting next week._

            That’s life, isn’t it.

            I call him up, running my fingers along the side of my head. It needs a shave. Maybe I can work that in tomorrow morning before work, if I can find a barber shop that opens at 10.

            When he answers, Joshua says, “Who’s my favourite person?”

            “I swear, one of these days we need to hang out like normal people instead of just calling one another for favours.”

            “You’re adorable, Draco.”

            “Please don’t tell me you’re calling from the office.”

            “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

            “Joshua,” I groan, slouching further down. “For pity’s sake.”

            “C’mon. I’m single, I’m old, and what else am I going to do?”

            “You’re forty, not dead. So? What is it this time?”

            “Have I mentioned how much I love and appreciate you lately—“

            “I was just sitting here thinking about maybe taking a vacation. Better get to the point quick before I do something rash and actually book a ticket somewhere.”

            “So…Therese isn’t feeling well.”

            I roll my eyes. “How many times do I have to remind you that I am not a trained counselor—“

            “Essie has her anniversary tomorrow, so she can’t do it.”

            “What about you? What are you doing?”

            “I’ve got the meeting with the Pfister Group on Friday morning, and I’m still waiting for the last of the data to come in from Horizons. Please, Draco? I seriously need a hand. I almost thought about calling Derrell to ask him.”

            I bark. “Yeah, get ten teenage boys to open up about their feelings to their principal. I’ll hold my breath.” Blowing out a breath, I look out the window. There’s clouds coming in. Maybe we’ll see some rain. “Yeah. What the hell. I’ll call Jason, let him know.”

            “Heard a rumor.”

            “What rumor’s that?”

            “That he actually has a date.”

            “Could be.”

            “Did he already go?”

            “Don’t you have very important work you should be doing right now?”

            “Give me a break. I’m up to my tits in paperwork and I haven’t left this building in fourteen hours. I need gossip. Gossip me, Draco.”

            I smile, and stretch. “All right. Strap in. I’ll tell you all about it.”

 

“You look happy,” Harry says by way of greeting.

            A bit surprised, I pause before sitting down. “Do I?” I tug at my tank top, trying to get comfortable. “I don’t know that I’m happy exactly. Just had a good day, is all. Nothing went wrong. In my books, that’s always considered a success.”

            “That’s kind of a low bar, don’t you think?”

            “I’m not hearing this from an unemployed man living in seclusion in Chiltern.” Stretching out my legs, I lean back on my hands. “Speaking of, what did you get up to today?”

            “Just working out in the shed.”

            Which is code for ‘working on my wands, but I don’t want to show how excited I am by it.’ “Is this the—Veela core?”

            Harry raises his eyes to the non-existent heavens. “Temperamental like you wouldn’t fucking believe.” He grins quickly, then leans forward slightly. “You should see the get up I have to wear working on it.”

            “What, like—“ I gesture from my head to my toes. “A biohazard suit or something?”

            “No, like—“ He looks at me, caught between wanting to share his glee and trying to remember that I’m the enemy. Which I’m not, incidentally. Giddiness wins out. “So I’ve got this metal helmet, yeah? A welder’s helmet, basically, only I’ve put some charms on it so that it doesn’t melt. Then I’ve got this set of pants and shirt that I wear. That’s dragon hide.”

            “Dragon hide?” I exclaim. “What the hell is this Veela hair doing to you?”

            “I’ve been trying different kinds of wood. It’s finicky.”

            “Good God. Well, if you die, at least they’ll remember you for your triumphs and not the fact that cause of death was Veela hair.”

            “Then I have these gloves—I’m not even going to tell you what those are made of.” He makes a face. “It’s rather illegal, to be honest.”

            “Like that’s ever stopped you.”

            He shrugs, not even a little bit sheepish. “I had to lie through my teeth last time I ended up in St. Mungo’s. Papers had a field day. They do any time I’m in hospital. And someone’s always leaking information to the press. I couldn’t very well tell admitting that I gave myself a concussion working with merpeople scales.”

            I lift a finger. “Excuse me. Have the laws changed that much since I left England?”

            This time Harry does look a bit embarrassed. “Not—precisely—“

            “Merpeople scales used for the purposes of magic—that’s considered Dark Arts. That’s on the _banned_ list.” I shake my head in mock dismay. “Perhaps after all this time you _are_ a dark wizard.”

            “It’s banned because people used to kill merpeople to scale them. Last time I was at Hogwarts, I just went to a lake and asked if they had a few lying around that they wouldn’t mind giving me.”

            “You speak Mermish now?”

            “I _really_ wanted the scales, so I listened to some instructional tapes. Do you want to hear it?”

            “No—“

            But he starts letting out these god awful, nail on chalk board screeches. He looks awfully cheerful about it too.

            Clapping my hands over my ears, I yell, “For the love of Christ, stop!”

            He’s grinning ear to ear. “What? Can’t you hear my subtle intonations?”

            “You sound like a dolphin going through a meat grinder,” I retort. “And the merpeople just gave you scales? And McGonagall was fine with that?”

            “She didn’t know, strictly.”

            “It was McGonagall. She knew.”

            “You’re right. She probably did.”

            “What took you up to Hogwarts?”

            He looks pained for a second. And here we’d been getting on so well. “Ah—it was two years back. The anniversary.”

            The anniversary. Right. “Ah.”

            It’s a perfect opportunity for him to bring up the past. Dredge up all the old wounds.

            Instead, Harry says, “Merpeople scales last for years, you know. Even without spellwork.”

            “Do they?” I say, even though I don’t care at all about merpeople physiology.

            Harry nods, and I can see that he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s choosing not to go down that road. That’s encouraging. “I’m thinking about maybe surrounding the Veela hair with the scales.”

            I clap a hand over my eyes. “Oh God. That’s exactly what’s called for. Pair two highly unstable races together and wrap it in wood.”

            “I was thinking they might cancel each other out actually—“

            I lift my head at the sound of ringing. “Sorry—my phone’s going off. I might not be—“

            I wake up. Knew it. I knew this day was too good to last. It’s not quite dark yet. Maybe 11? I went to bed fairly early.

            The phone says Evan. Fuck. This won’t be good. Flipping it open, I put it to my ear. “What’s wrong?”

            “Draco—hi. Hi, I’m—I’m sorry I called so late.”

            He doesn’t sound distressed. Doesn’t matter. They know not to call me to chat. “It’s fine. Like I told you—any time, day or night. What’s going on?”

            “Nothing, just—I was thinking.” He lets out a sudden sigh. “This is stupid. I’m sorry I called you so late—“

            “Don’t you dare. You hang up on me, I’m coming over there.” I pull the blankets back up over my shoulder, closing my eyes. “I will get on the train to the Bronx, and I will knock on your door, and you’ll have to explain to your mother. So whatever you have to say, go ahead and say it.”

            A few seconds pass. I’m halfway between falling asleep and getting up to put my clothes on and apparate outside his apartment building.

            “I, uh…wanted to say thank you.”

            My eyes fly open. “Beg pardon?”

            “Um…thank you? For…for the other day. And stuff.”

            It takes me a moment. “Oh.”

            “I know I could have just said it to you, but I don’t think I could have. And it didn’t seem right to text it to you either. I just…got it in my head that I should say it. So I’m saying it.”

            I’ve no idea what to do. Whenever a boy thanks me—I don’t know what to do with it. I’m good with the struggle, the challenge, but when they recognize it, I sort of freeze up. It’s not that I don’t know how to take a compliment, but gratitude—it still seems strange after all these years that anyone would be glad for something I’ve done.

            I realize I’m leaving him hanging. “I want you to understand that I’m not speaking not because I don’t appreciate what you’re saying, but because I get embarrassed when someone thanks me. You understand what that’s like, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Honestly, I just—I did what anyone should do.”

            “I guess, but…most people wouldn’t. They wouldn’t know what to say or they’d say it wrong or they wouldn’t get it and I…I want to tell you that I was listening to you. That’s all I wanted to say.”

            “That…is very sweet, and very kind. Thank you, Evan. I’m happy I could help.” I push my hair back from my face, rolling onto my back. “You know I’m not going anywhere, right? And we’re just starting out. Not that I don’t want to discount any progress that you’ve made so far or overwhelm you by bringing up that there’s plenty to still be done—I’m fucking this up, aren’t I.”

            He’s laughing a little on the other end of the phone. Not just that single sigh of a laugh he usually gives me. “No, it’s…it’s okay.”

            “You’re all right, yeah?”

            “Yeah. I…I don’t know. It’s kind of like…this is going to sound really stupid and clichéd but I can’t think of anything better.”

            “That’s fine.”

            “It’s like I’ve been sitting in a room a really long time, and I just turned around and realized there’s a door.”

            I smile. “That—“ Is awful. “Sounds perfect.”

            “It’s really bad. But I’m not good at that kind of stuff.”

            “It’s always about the effort.”

            “I’m going to let you go back to sleep.”

            “If you need to talk, I’m certainly awake now.”

            “No, it’s really okay. Sorry I woke you.”

            “Any time,” I yawn. “Hey, I’ll be at the center tomorrow night. So I’ll see you then, if you think of anything you want to talk about.”

            “I’ll make a list.”

            It’s as close to a joke as he ever comes. “I’ll look forward to it.”

            “Night, Draco,” Evan says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            “Night.”

            I hang up, and toss the phone on the bedside table.

            This day—has not been terrible at all.

 

“You look even happier than last time.”

            I flop back down. “Sorry. I suppose I interrupted some dream where you were Seeker for the Cannons or something.”

            Exasperated, Harry says, “Why do you always assume I want to be at the center of attention?”

            “Because you do.”

            Instead of unimpressed, he merely looks bemused. “I was dreaming about hurling gnomes out of the garden. They were staging an uprising.”

            “Never saw a gnome in a garden. House elves always ate them.”

            Harry’s eyes go wide. “They did not.”

            “They truly did.”

            “Is that…that’s not a widely accepted practice, is it?”

            “You know more about house elves than I do, Harry. Closest I’ve been to one in over a decade is the one my mother occasionally sends to spy on me, or to get my measurements for some outfit I’ll never wear.”

            He grins. “I can’t imagine she approves too much of your current wardrobe.”

            I pluck at my Fleet Foxes tank top. “We’ve come to an agreement. I wear black when we firecall, and she doesn’t attempt to send the aforementioned house elf into my apartment. It never ended well for Jinjy.”

            “What did you do to that poor defenseless house elf?”

            I wave a hand. “Hold on. House elves have plenty of magic. And if you think I don’t ward my house, you’re mad.”  

            He’s smiling. I know I’ve thought it before, but he is dead handsome when he does that. He should do it more often. Scratching at his hair, Harry says, “So everything’s all right then?”

            “With what? The house elf? How would I know?”

            “No—usually when you get a call it’s bad news.”

            “Oh! No, that was—“ I catch my lower lip between my teeth. I don’t know that I want to tell him. I’m not sure if he’ll take the piss out of me or not. And I don’t want to be teased about this.

            “It was what?”

            Trying not to show that I’m pleased—and failing—I say, “One of the boys calling to say thank you.”

            Raising his brows, Harry says, “At what time?”

            Shrugging, I reply, “They do that sometimes. It’s hard for some young men to say thank you. Especially to someone’s face. They have to work themselves up to it. When they finally get the courage, they have to do it that moment or they know they’ll have to work themselves up all over again. First one I got, it was the day Ty was accepted to Columbia. He’d been so bashful about it, playing it off that day. But then he called me at one in the morning, and I thought he must have been drunk, but he wasn’t. He was just calling to say thank you.” I debate, then I tell the truth. “I _hate_ when they do it.”

            “When they say thank you?”

            I nod, relieved to have said it. I don’t know that I could say it to anyone in my day to day life. Not sure why. “I work hard with them. I do. There’s no doubt in my mind, in anyone’s mind. But I’m not doing it for—money or for accolades or anything. When someone says I’m doing a good job, I just—I joke about it, or I tell them to shut up. I used to chase praise so desperately that now it just—embarrasses me.”

            “That’s a world away from the Draco Malfoy I knew.”

            I glance at him from under my brows.

            And I wonder.

            Why are we still here? We’ve slowly but surely worked our way to a place where we snipe at one another, but since he finally got the bit about Goyle off his chest, he’s been increasingly—well, _nice_ to me these past few days. We’re not battling anymore. We’re just talking. He doesn’t look at me like I’m a monster about to go off. I don’t assume that he’s going to say something stupid every time he opens his mouth. We talk each night, comfortably, without any major issue.

            So why are we still here?

            Harry tilts his head. “What?”

            I blink, then smile faintly. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

            “It’ll give you wrinkles.”

            “Gasp.”

            “Which boy was calling you?”

            I bite the side of my mouth. “Evan.”  

            “Really?” Harry says, surprised. I nod, trying with all my might to keep up a blank front. He reaches out, almost as if he could flick my knee. “Well that’s something, isn’t it?”

            I can’t help myself. I duck my head and smile.


	21. Chapter 21

I’m halfway down the street when I see a man who is the absolute spitting image of Severus Snape.

            I slow down, my coffee stalling in front of my mouth. He’s walking towards me. The clothes are different—he’s dressed in a grey suit with a white shirt, he’s wearing a tie. I never saw Severus in anything other than black robes. Not once. But the man keeps his hair the same length. He has the same nose, the same chin. It’s eerie. It’s fucking eerie.

            He lifts his head, and I’m relieved to see a difference. He has warm brown eyes. There are laugh lines around them. Severus certainly never had laugh lines.

            The man sees me looking at him. I give a weak smile and keep walking, putting my head down, and I have some more coffee.

            It’s a strange omen to start the day.

 

Hands clap next to my head, and I near startle out of my skin.

            Leanna leans down, looking me in the eyes with concern. “I’ve said your name like three times now.”

            “Sorry—what’s wrong?”

            “Roddy needs you.” She puts her hand to my forehead. “You okay?”

            I brush her hand away and get up. “Off, woman.” I yelp as she smacks me on the arse. “Workplace harassment. I’m telling Jason.”

            “Yeah, I’m sure he’ll get right on that,” Leanna says, sliding into my chair.

            Rodrigo’s not in the studio, so he must be out back. I walk down the hall, then open the back door. Sure enough, he’s smoking, sitting down on a couple of milk crates.

            “Sorry, Rigo,” I say, hanging off the doorway by the ends of my fingertips. “Leanna said you needed me?”

            He reaches into his pocket. “If I give you twenty—“

            “And I get something for myself, yes, I’ll buy you cigarettes.” He holds out the money, and I slip it into my pocket. He always tells me to get something for myself, though God knows I can afford my own snacks. But he’s good like that. Never wants to take something for nothing.

            Before I can leave, Rodrigo says, “Hey.” I pause, sticking my head back out the door. “You okay?”

            I frown. “It’s not like you to ask that.”

            He shrugs. “You seem kinda spacey today. Not like you either.”

            If it was anyone else, I wouldn’t say anything. But it’s Rodrigo. I know he won’t say a word to anyone. I step outside, letting the door close. “Truth of it is, I saw something strange this morning. It’s thrown me off a little.”

            Taking a puff off his cigarette, Rodrigo asks, “What did you see?”

            I sit down on the ground in front of him, leaning against the front wheel of his—what is it? A Harley? I really don’t know anything about vehicles. He usually glares at anyone who touches it, but he never glares at me. “When I was walking to work, I saw a man who could have been the doppelganger of one of my father’s friends. He was one of my teachers as well. The best of all my teachers. He was very, very good to me.” I raise my shoulders. “He’s also been dead twelve years.”

            “I saw Jim Morrison once.”

            With a furrowed brow, I ask, “Who’s he?”

            Rodrigo never asks why I don’t know the things I don’t know. He was raised on a commune, so there were plenty of things he didn’t know either until he was an adult. “He was the singer for The Doors.”

            “Don’t know them, I’m afraid. Should I check them out?”

            “They’re okay,” Rodrigo says, and coming from him, that’s a ringing endorsement. Note to self: look up The Doors. “Anyways, he died in 1970. Drug overdose. In France.”

            “Where’d you see him?”

            “Albuquerque.”

            “That’s a peculiar place to see a dead man.”

            “I don’t know. You ever been to Albuquerque?” I grin, and Rodrigo says, “I was doing a trip across the south—doing some things, you know—and I stopped to have dinner at this place. And Jim Morrison was sitting in the booth across from me. He was having eggs.”

            “What kind?” I ask, straight faced.

            “Scrambled,” Rodrigo says, not skipping a beat. “Nearly everybody else didn’t notice, but this one chick—I could see her keep looking at him. I could see she was freaking out. Because it was Jim Morrison.”

            “Had he aged?”

            “No. He was still the same age as when he died.”

            I’m not entirely sure if he’s talking about a man who looked like this Jim Morrison, a ghost, or the reanimated corpse _of_ Jim Morrison. “Did you say anything to him?”

            “Nah. I never say anything to celebrities when I see them. You know, I used to date this woman who lived across the street from Heath Ledger. I’d see him all the time. He’d kind of smile when he saw me. I’d kind of smile back. I never said anything to him, though.”

            “Do you wish you had?”

            “No. I kind of feel better that I didn’t.”

            I rub my hand over my newly shaved scalp. I love when it’s fresh and new like this. “I mean—I understand that the man I saw just happened to look like my teacher. He wasn’t identical or anything like that. Wasn’t dressed like him. Didn’t walk like him. There was just something about his face. The way it was shaped. His nose—his hair. It surprised me a little, is all.”

            “What did he teach?”

            “Chemistry.”

            “How’d he die?”

            “Animal attack,” I say just as easily.

            “Shit.”

            “Yeah.”

            “What kind of animals they got in England that could do something like that?”

            “Not many. Honestly, it was rather bizarre. We all knew this madman who had a poisonous snake. Bit him. He died.”

            “Shit.”

            “Yeah.”

            “That one of the reasons you got into teaching?”

            I look up at Rodrigo, off guard. “I’m not a teacher. I don’t teach anything. I just help with their homework. Listen to their problems. Try to help them make good decisions.”

            He stubs his cigarette out on the side of the milk crate, then puts the end in the nearly empty can. The homeless usually raid it whenever they come by. “Just because you don’t have a degree or anything doesn’t mean you’re not a teacher.”

            I think about it. I think of the line of us, stretching back. All we broken boys, finding our way back to try and raise up the others. Me, Severus—that quack Dumbledore.

            “Suppose he is one of the reasons,” I say. I clap my hands on my thighs. “I’ll go get your cancer sticks, shall I?”

            “Cool. Make sure you—“

            “Get something for myself,” I say, opening the door. “I know.”

 

“Gentlemen!”

            The boys all look up. There’s a moment of confusion, then happiness. And—there’s a face I didn’t expect.

            “Dre!” Austin says, jumping up.

            He takes my hand and pulls me into what they call a bro hug. I pat his back, then push him back a foot to take a look at his face. Good God, he doesn’t look high. It has been a long time since I could say that about him. “How are you?”

            “Sixty one days,” he says proudly.

            “Well done.” I give his hair a muss.

            That gets the expected result. He squawks, ducking away. “Why you gotta do me like that?” He starts pushing his hair back into place, going to sit down.

            There’s a group of eight tonight. I call them boys, but they’re not entirely. The age limit on this group is twenty, so I’ve got two former graduates, and a drop out (Austin). I settle into the empty chair at the top of the circle, opening up the notebook. I talked to Therese over the phone, took some notes. She does, in fact, sound like death.

            “Where are you living these days?” I ask Austin.

            He’s still playing with his hair. “Mom took me back.”

            “How’s that going?”   

            Austin shrugs, regretful. “Kinda hard for her to leave anything in the house unlocked, but I deserve that. Hey, I’m doing this GED course.”

            “That’s excellent. Speaking of school—“ I catch Michael’s eyes, and raise my brows. “One week. Are you excited?”

            He inhales, then lifts his shoulders. “I guess.”

            “You don’t have to be scared,” Victor tells him.

            “I’m not scared,” Michael says forcefully. I think it’s safe to say that none of us believe him.

            Evan, thankfully, is seated to my left. He’s not wearing a hoodie today. Just a long sleeved tee under a short sleeved one. He looks at me, and gives a little bit of a smile. I smile back, then pull out a pen. “So—should we get started?”

            “It’s not six yet,” says Victor.

            I lean back, turning to look at the clock. It’s 5:58. “Really?”  

            “Therese never starts until it’s six,” Jackson explains. “She’s pretty strict about it.”

            With a roll of the eyes, I say, “Well, you gentlemen watch that clock, and tell me when it’s appropriate for us to start our meeting.”

            I write down the names of everyone present. They chatter a little among themselves, but not too loud. I’m not sure if they’re this polite for Therese, but all of them certainly know what I’m like when people don’t behave.

            We all look up at the sound of sneakers pounding down the hallway. Looks like we’ve got one more attendee.

            Us bursts through the doorway, gasping, “Made it—“ He freezes when he sees me. He actually stops in place, and just stares at me.

            He’s kept away from me this month. I haven’t pushed the subject, because I know it’s a difficult thing for a regular to accept, let alone a sixteen year old boy. Wait, seventeen. He’ll be seventeen in a few days. I’ve kept an eye on him from a distance. I check with the others to make sure he’s going to meetings. He’s been to see Gemma twice, and it’s only a matter of time before his record is expunged. According to everyone, he’s still keeping his distance from Nines, so I don’t have to worry about that. He seems to be doing fine, so I’ve left him be.

            Now here we are.

            “Hello, Us. Looks like you got here just in time. Have a seat, and we’ll get started.”

            I add his name to the list, and wait for him to sit down. We’ll start from my right and work our way around. Best that Evan goes last. I don’t want to start off with him. He still feels—well, a bit delicate.

            Only I look up, and Us is standing there, staring at me.

            Uh oh. “Demetrius? Do you want to take a seat?”

            Something in his face changes. And not for the better. “No,” he says.

            For heaven’s sake. He’s cutting into the others’ time now. If he’s going to be like this, though, I have to take care of it. Turning around, I put the notebook on the desk behind me and start to rise. “All right, let’s have a word outside—“

            “No.”

            I stop. “Sorry?”

            His face is getting harder and colder by the second. “No. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t wanna be anywhere near you.”

            “Regardless, this isn’t how adults resolve a situation. So—“ I step towards him.

            He steps back quickly. “Don’t come near me, you fucking freak.”

            That stops me where I stand. I hear some of the boys protesting—Victor sounds particularly incensed on my behalf—but I don’t know what to do. I’ve had boys yell at me, call me names in front of the others before. This is different. He knows what I am. I don’t know what to do about that.

            My hesitation seems to embolden Us. “You act like you’re—like you’re one of us, like you’re normal, but you’re _not_. You’re a fucking freak, and I _know what you are_.”

            He’s a child. He’s just a child. He might look like a man, but he isn’t. I’ve no reason to be afraid of him, and I’m not.

            I open my mouth to speak, but a small voice behind me gets there first. “Don’t talk to him like that.”

            I look back. Everyone is looking at Evan in surprise.

            He swallows, cheeks turning red. “Dra-Draco’s only been nice to you. D-Don’t be a dick to him.”

            Us gazes at him a moment, then his eyes change. His mouth pulls into a sneer that feels so familiar it makes my stomach churn.

            “Why the fuck should I listen to you, psycho?” Us challenges. “If I don’t pretend to be friends with you, are you gonna take a gun to school and kill me too?”

            My insides feel like they’re dropping out. “Us, stop it—“

            “I saw your books, you little psycho. You should be in fucking prison instead of everybody else.” He looks around. “You know what he was gonna do? He was gonna kill everybody at school—“

            I’m almost tripped off my feet as Evan slams past me. He runs out of the room and this is about as bad as it could possibly be.

            “Evan!” I call after him, and I try to run after him.

            Only Us gets in front of me, blocking my way. “What are you doing?” he snaps at me.

            “Demetrius, _move_ —“

            For every step I take he blocks me, shaking his head at me in disgust. “You just like him ‘cause he’s like you—you’re both fucking _freaks_ —“

            Enough of this. I have to get past him—

            He shoves me, hard. So hard I go falling back against the desk.

            Everyone’s on their feet. Some are moving towards Us.

            I catch my balance, and immediately lift my hand. My heart’s pounding almost out of control. “Everyone sit down.” No one moves, and I raise my voice. “Sit. Down.” I cast a harsh eye on them until they all do. Then I turn my attention back to Us. “Get out.”

            “I’m not going any—“

            Flatly, I say, “You know the rules. You’re violent with anyone on the premises, you get a six month ban. So get out.”

            Us says defiantly, “What are you gonna do, huh? What are you gonna do to me?”

            I lose my temper. Just a little. Drawing myself up, I step forward and lower my voice into a growl. “Get out. Or I’ll _make_ you.”

            There’s a flicker of fear in his eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by bravado. “Yeah? Whatcha gonna do? You—“

            His mouth keeps moving, but no words come out.

            There’s the safeguard charm. He probably didn’t even know he was under it. His eyes bug out a little bit, and he tries to speak, but he’s silent.

            Arching a brow, I say acidly, “Cat got your tongue?”

            He grimaces, then turns and storms out.

            Fuck. Just— _fuck_. Fuck fuck fuck.

            My body wants to tremble as the adrenaline leaves it, but I can’t let it. I carefully thread my fingers through my hair, then turn back to my wide eyed boys. “First off, I want to remind you that we work on a confidentiality system here. Your fellow group mates don’t share your secrets, and I would remind you that what’s said in this room stays in this room. Understood?” I get some nods, some murmured, “Yes, Dre.” I nod back. “Secondly, I need you to excuse me for five minutes, because I need to make some phone calls. Depending on those phone calls, I might have to cancel the meeting. Apologies in advance, all right?”

            They nod again. I already have my phone out as I leave the room.

            Once I’m in the hallway, and the door is closed, I lean back against the wall. I drop down on the floor, and put my face in my hands.

 

I can’t find him.

            I’ve apparated all over this fucking borough, and I cannot find Evan.

            I’ve called everyone that I can think of. I call his mother. I call Derrell. I call Essie, even though she’s in the middle of her anniversary dinner. I call Therese. I contemplate calling the police, but they would just laugh at me.

            I call and text him, over and over again. I tell him to call me back. I tell him to pick up his phone. I tell him not to hurt himself. I tell him that I need to make sure he’s all right.

            Eventually, I switch to outright begging.

            “Evan—“ I’m standing on the clock tower of the Estey Piano Company factory because I need a decent vantage point. Next I’m going back to the water, to see if he hasn’t waded in. “Evan, I need you to call me back. Please. Evan, this is important, you have to call, you have to—“

            I get cut off because his inbox is full.

 

My phone rings when I’m walking through the community garden by the water. Please be him, please be him, please—

            It isn’t.

            “Victor?” I say. “What’s up?”

            “Dre, I gotta tell you—you’re not gonna like it, but I gotta tell you—“           

            “Victor, I don’t mean to rush you, but I am in a really serious situation right now.”

            “I just got a text from Henry, who got a text from Us—he sent out this big group text saying that Evan was some, like, psycho, who was planning to kill us all when we got back to school. He said that Evan has all these books and stuff where he wrote about it and made plans and everything.”

            I can’t go any further. I lean over, so that I’m bent in half. I let all the blood rush to my head.

            Faintly, I hear Victor say my name. I have to count to three.

            Standing back up, I thank him for telling me, and I ask him to call me if he hears anything else.

            As soon as I’m off the phone, I text Us. ‘STOP. If you don’t stop, he is going to kill himself.’

            An answer comes back a minute later.

            ‘Fuk u. Fuck him2.’

 

I don’t know where else to look. I don’t know what to do.

            So I apparate to Samatchin, running the moment I hit the terminal point, down the stairs and into the crowds. It’s not as bad as normal, but I still have to zig and zag around people, brushing off people who try to put things into my hands.

            I run all the way to Teseli’s. It’s almost ten, and the shop’s long since closed, but she lives above, and I’ve never seen her outside the building more than twenty feet. I rap on the front door, then step back.

            The windows above the shop are dark. She has to be here. She has to.

            Putting my hands to the side of my mouth, I holler, “Teseli!” I don’t care what the cost is, I don’t care the price, I just have to find him. “TESELI!”

            “What are you, insane?”

            I turn around, finding a woman with massive cat eye glasses looking at me in disbelief. “Do you know where she is?” I ask.

            “I don’t know, but you’re taking your life in your hands, don’t you know who that is—“

            “I need help,” I tell her. “I need—I need to know how to find someone.”

            “What are you asking me for? Go to the police.”

            “I need—I have to find a muggle.” No! I shake my head, furious with myself, with Teseli, with this woman. “A regular! I’m trying to find a regular.”

            “Well, good luck with that,” she snorts, and moves on.

            God—damn it! I should have known better than to come here. Magic—it’s all gossamer and illusion. When you need something done, it’s _useless_ , it’s all fucking useless.

            It hits me suddenly, like ice water down my clothes. She knows. She knows so much. She knows why I’m here, and that’s why she’s not coming to the door. Because I’m trying to find a regular. That’s why she’s pretending like she’s not home.

            I turn and punch the window, hard enough that it cracks, hard enough that my knuckles splits open.

 

It’s past eleven. I tried the police on Samatchin, but they said they couldn’t help. They only serve magics. Of course.

            I’m never going back there. Not ever. Teseli says those are my people—they’re not. They’re useless, myopic, inbred—

            I’m walking near the Bruckner, because I’m out of ideas. I’ve called everyone, I’ve done everything I can think of. His mother has called me three times in the last hour alone to see if I’ve heard from him. I’ve gone to the diner where he washes dishes, I’ve been near the school, I went past his old elementary school—

            My phone rings.

            I snatch it up. Michael. Michael never calls me this late.

            I answer, feeling hopeless. “Michael?”

            Michael says, “I got him.”

            My legs give out. I have to grab onto a street light, and I manage to lower myself onto the sidewalk. “You’ve got him?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Is he okay?”

            “Yeah.”

            Relief overcomes me in a near nauseous rush. I have to put a hand to my forehead, and close my eyes. “Where did you—how did you—“

            “I just started walking, to see if I could find him. I found him riding the 6.”

            The train. Jesus, why didn’t I think of that? “You just went out looking for him?”

            “Yeah. It’s what you’d do.”

            I let out a weak little laugh, and look up at the night. “Michael—be glad you’re not in front of me right now, because I would hug you, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing you could do about it.” I take a deep breath. He’s okay. He’s still alive. Everything else, we can take care of. “Where are you?”

            “We’re by the station, Pelham Bay Park. I got him to tell me his mom’s number. She’s coming.”

            “Okay. Okay. Can I speak to him, please?”

            “Yeah. Just a sec.”

            There’s the rustle of the phone moving around, and a murmur. Then a little voice says, “Hello?”

            I could melt into the pavement. Instead, I just drape myself back against the street lamp. “Young man,” I say, and it takes a truly Herculean effort to keep my voice steady. “I expect you to answer your phone when I’m trying to get hold of you.”

            “Um…I sort of…threw it away.”

            I close my eyes again. “You threw your phone away?”

            “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

            “It’s okay. I just—I was very, very worried, and I didn’t know where you were.”

            “I know. I kind of…freaked out.”

            “It’s okay to do that, but we have to know where you are when that happens.”

            “I know. I’m sorry.”

            “Your mother’s coming to get you?”

            “Yeah.”

            For want of anything better, I say, “So how’s your evening been?”

            “Shitty,” he replies.

            I laugh weakly. “That would be a word for it, yes.”

            Evan says, “He told everybody.”

            Here we go. “That’s not what’s important right now. What’s important is getting you home. Anything else, we can deal with in the morning.”

            “Everybody knows now.”

            “Evan—listen to me. That is not what matters. What matters is that you are in one piece, and tomorrow we will deal with this. Literally all you have to handle right now is going home, getting some sleep, and tomorrow we’ll work the rest out. No matter what that means. I’ll be there, and your mother will be there, and all the people who care about you will be there. Do you understand?” He doesn’t speak. “Evan?”

            “Yeah. I understand.”

            “Tomorrow’s Friday, so you’ll have your appointment with Essie at nine, right?”

            “Uh huh.”

            “Can you hold on until then?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Evan, be honest with me. Are you thinking about hurting yourself?”

            “I…thought about it. But I’m not going to.”

            “You’re sure?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Will you promise me?”

            “Uh huh.”

            “I need to hear you say it, Evan. I need to hear you say the actual words.”

            “I promise, I’m not going to hurt myself.”

            I take a deep breath. Good. A promise is a promise. “Okay.” 

            “You’ve been looking for me, huh.”

            Understatement. “Evan, I have searched every corner of the sodding Bronx looking for you. South, north, east, west—only goddamn place I didn’t look was the train.”

            “My dad and I—sometimes we’d just ride on it. He liked to do that.”

            “I didn’t know that.”

            “He really liked trains. He wanted to be a conductor, but he was blind in one eye. When he was a kid, someone threw a protractor at his face.” Evan sighs. “I think I see my mom.”

            “All right. Will you tell her to call me when you both get home? So I know you’re safe?”

            “Yeah. Hey—Draco?”

            “Yes, Evan.”

            “Thanks.”

            I nod. “Any time.”

            That was close. That was so fucking close.

 

I lay awake until nearly three in the morning. I can’t sleep. I just keep thinking about everything.

            Evan has his appointment with Essie at ten, and then he’ll see his family doctor at noon to talk about his medications. Once he’s done that, I’m going to meet him and his mother for lunch, and we’ll talk about strategies.

            I think we’re going to have to pull him from the school. There’s no way he can go back there, not after what Us pulled. If it was difficult for Evan being invisible, it’s going to be impossible when everyone knows his face.

            I can’t believe Us. I can’t believe how—cruel, how malicious he was. I know teenagers are like that, I know, but I didn’t think that he could….

            I toss, and I turn.

            It was something I would have done. At his age. I know it is. What was it Harry said? That I use truth like a weapon when a lie wouldn’t suffice? I’d have done what Us did and not given it a second thought. That’s the kind of person I was. That’s the kind of person Us is.

            After everything—

            I have to sleep. I have to be a responsible human being tomorrow, and figure out how to deal with a potentially suicidal sixteen year old who can’t go back to his high school. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I have to be strong.

            I’m not trained for this. I don’t have a degree, like the others who work at the center. I just do what experience and my gut tells me, and look how that’s turned out. I trusted Us, I believed in him, and now he’s—

            _Never give up on a boy. Fuck him_.

            Sleep. I need to sleep.

            It will work out. It has to work out. Not working out isn’t an option. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

            I _have_ to do this.

 

“Leave it to you to ruin a perfectly good dream about winning the World Cup.” I roll over, and Harry draws back an inch. “You look like hell.”

            I sit up. Usually, when I come here, I don’t feel any kind of physical ailment. Right now, though, I feel—agitated. Like there’s something in my bones that’s vibrating.

            I don’t want to do this tonight. This morning. Whatever fucking time it is. I put the side of my hand against my forehead, rubbing against it.

            “Malfoy? Are you all right?”

            I look up at him. I’ve been calling him by his first name for three months, and still, all he can do is call me by my last name. Same as always. Looking at me with concerned eyes, but he doesn’t mean it, because he can’t even do me the common courtesy of calling me by my name.

            “What are we still doing here?” I ask.

            Harry frowns slightly. “Sorry?”

            “I said, what the fuck are we still doing here? What else do you—what else do I have to give? I can’t—I can’t seem to beat it through your head that I’m a different person, that I’ve changed, that—what do you _want_ from me?”

            “I—I don’t want anything—“

            “Don’t lie, don’t do that to me tonight, I’m not—tell me what I have to do to be rid of this. I’ve apologized, over and over again, and that hasn’t helped. I’ve told you what my life is like, and you actually seem to believe me, so I don’t know what the issue is there. I literally—I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what you want from me to make this stop, and I need this to stop.”

            “Why? What’s happened?”

            I bark, then narrow my eyes at him. “What’s happened? Aren’t you the one who pissed and whinged about the fact that we might be stuck here forever, and you want to know what’s happened? I need my life back. I don’t want you in my face, every night, this fucking reminder of my terrible past, when I have a real life to live, now, that needs every single scrap of my attention, or things go wrong. Do you understand that? My life isn’t like yours. I don’t get to just coast. I don’t get to play around in my shed and hide from the world if I’m having a bad day. I have to get up and go out there and sometimes the decisions I make are terrible ones that have terrible consequences and I can’t be _split_ like this anymore. I just want my life back. So what do you want?”

            He moves his mouth, but nothing comes out, and I’m suddenly reminded of Us.

            Slamming my hand on the ground, I snap, “God damn it, Potter, what do you want?!”

            He opens his mouth, and disappears.

            I wake up.

            Because of course I do.


	22. Chapter 22

I’ve still got a few hours. I keep checking my phone, looking at the time. I’m on edge today, and the coffee probably isn’t helping with that.

            But I had a grand total of three hours kip, so not having coffee is just not an option.

            I’m going in to work for a few hours before leaving. Jason will understand when I tell him what happened. He’s always been good about that, even when he hated Derrell. And he’s usually in a pretty good mood these days. I’ll have to sit through hearing all about his latest date when all I really want to do is get to the Bronx, but I have to keep my life in balance. Everything needs to be tended to.

            Bookstore.

            There’s the used one across the street from the shop. It opens an hour before we do. Chewing on my lip, I decide to give it a look. I told Roderick I’d look around for something out of the ordinary for him.

            Crap. I still haven’t opened _Roots_. I suppose I have a week and a half before I see him again. Somewhere in there I’ll manage to fit it in.

            Dodging across the street, I step inside with a little smile. “Morning, Caroline.”

            She looks up from behind the counter. “Hey Draco.” Her face falls slightly. “Long night?”

            When I looked in the mirror this morning, it wasn’t a pretty sight. My eyes are sunken from lack of sleep, and my skin is a rather alarming shade of grey. I didn’t want to be bothered about my hair, so I just pulled it into a ponytail. Let people look at my scar if they want. I really don’t give a shit today.

            “Not much sleep.”

            She tosses something at me, and I catch it. “Have a chocolate.”

            I smile crookedly, and unwrap it. I think of all the adults in my childhood, any time I started to look peaky, they’d push a chocolate at me. “This will definitely make everything better,” I say to her, then make my way into the aisles.

            My brain feels rather fuzzy today. And my legs are sore from all the running I did last night. I’m not exactly the most in-shape man to ever roam the earth. Skin and bones and not much more. I yawn, and once that’s done I have a large gulp of coffee.

            Roderick mostly likes fiction, so I spend a good ten minutes rifling through before hollering, “Caroline!”

            A few seconds later, she comes around the corner, leaning heavily on her cane. “What, dear?”

            “My brain is so much mush today. I need something for Roderick, but—“ I gesture to my head.

            She bandies about a moment, then pulls a soft cover from the shelf. “Knowing his taste, maybe he should give Thomas King a try.”

            “Who’s Thomas King?” I ask. Her eyes light up, and I can see her about to go into a dissertation on the topic, so I lift a hand. “I’m sure it’s perfect, and God knows I’d love to hear all about it, but Jason will need me to have the orders in before we’re open.”

            She frowns at me a little, saying, “Way to cut an old woman off.”

            I follow her back to the counter as she limps. “Sorry. It’s going to be a long day.”

            A large book sticking out from the corner of one of the shelves catches my eye. I stop and step back to have a better look at it. ‘The Trains of New York.’ I pick it up—wow. That is heavy. It’s about ten years old. Plenty of pictures. Diagrams. He’ll like the diagrams.

            I take it with me to the counter.

 

“And then he—“ Jason stops. “You don’t really want to hear this, do you.”

            Perched on the side of his massage table, my second cup of coffee in hand, I say, “Of course I do.” I don’t, I really don’t, but given how quickly his expression softened when I told him why I had to leave by 1:45, I will absolutely listen to every detail of his third date with Alex in the last week.

            Assembling his machine, Jason continues happily. “So he said, ‘Are you gonna ask me?’ And I said, ‘Ask you what?’ Kind of playing with him, you know. And then the bitch, he sort of shrugged at me and said, ‘All right, if that’s the way you want to do it,’ and started walking away from me.”

            With a snort, I say, “Bet you back pedaled pretty fast on that one.”

            “I didn’t know these fat little legs could move that quick, Draco. But I grabbed him by the arm, and I was like, you know—‘Come up, do you want to come up, I think you should come up.’ Like a huge fucking dork, buddy.”

            I swing a leg out at him. “So?”

            “So what?”

            I drop my head back. “So, did he come up?”

            Jason tries to smother his smile. “Yeah.”

            “And?”

            “And what?”

            “And what’s his cock look like?”

            “Jesus!” Jason laughs. “I’m not telling you that.”

            “Don’t be shy. I want to know details.”

            “That’s—no. No, I’m not telling you that.”

            “What? I know you’d tell Joshua about your sex life.”

            “Yeah, but that’s Joshua. You’re like my little brother. It’d be weird. You’ve never wanted to know before.”

            “That’s because it used to be you and Derrell. That would have been really weird to hear about. I want to hear about the hot Slovakian Ecuadoran. I want to know all the filthy things you two get up to.” Jason gags, and I plead, “Come on. I’ll be single until I die. Humour me.”

            “You know,” Jason says, “if even I can get a date, you sure as hell can.”      

            “You’re much more dateable than I am.”

            He yelps. “In what dimension is this?”

            “People love this whole cute tattooed bear thing you have going. I lift up my shirt, it looks like I’ve been attacked by Edward Scissorhands.” I shake my head. “No one wants that.”

            “What are we arguing about?” Leanna asks as she walks in, lifting her sunglasses on top of her head.

            “Draco thinks I have a better chance of getting laid than he does.”

            Leanna lets out an echoing bark, then slaps a hand over her mouth. “I mean,” she says, blushing, “you’re both equally fuckable, and you, as my boss, are perhaps even more so—“

            “I can’t remember,” Jason says, “does penicillin work on gonorrhea?”

            Leanna stamps her foot. “I—do not—have gonorrhea! Condoms! I am all about condoms. Stop laughing. I have needles over here. I’ll stab you with needles.”

            I’m trying to cover my giggles as my phone goes off. As I pull it out, Jason says, “You’ll at least glove up first, right? I don’t want to catch whatever it is you’ve got.”

            It’s Derrell.

            And I just know.

            I’m not sure how I do. But everything fades out, and I feel my insides working. I feel the blood moving through my veins, and the pulse of my heart, and I don’t want to exist outside of this. I don’t want to answer the phone. That’s not an option.

            On the third ring, I open it up and put it to my ear. “Yes.”

            From the other end, there comes a few little breaths. Then he says, in tears, “Hey, buddy.”

            I close my eyes.

 

I walk up the stairs, holding the books close to my chest. It’s a little after five. I’ve been carrying them around with me all day. I couldn’t seem to let them go.

            We spent the afternoon with Joanna. She has a sister coming in from Wyoming, but that’s about the only family she has. She saw the book and started crying, and didn’t really stop after that.

            I feel like I’m moving through a dream. Nothing is sharp around the edges. I can’t let anything get further in than this haze around me. If it did, I think I would fall apart. I think my arms and legs would come off. My head would roll off my body and into a corner. I wouldn’t know how to put the pieces back together again.

            I sense eyes on me, and look up. The boy is standing at the railings that overlook the landing on the top floor. His eyes don’t blink.

            “Hi Dustin,” I say, and why does my voice sound so young?

            He asks, “What’s wrong?”

            Sharp edge.

            I push it away. Carefully, I say, “I had some bad news.”

            He tilts his head. “Did someone die?”

            It’s trying to stick in. It’s trying to get in and it wants to hurt, but I won’t let it. I can’t let it. I just nod once. “Yes.”

            I walk the rest of the way up the stairs, and now I’m the one looking down at him. He seems so small. He looks up at me, and—I don’t know. I don’t know what he’ll be. A good person? A bad person? In a few years’ time, who will this child be?

            “Have the people from the outreach been nice to you?” I ask.

            He nods. “Yeah. They…made things less scary.”

            “Good. How’s your mother doing?”

            “She didn’t really believe it at first, and then she was sort of—“ He shrugs. Then he brightens. “We went out for ice cream yesterday, though.”

            “That’s nice.”

            His eyes move down. “Is that about trains?”

            I look down at the large book clutched in my hands, the Thomas King one sitting atop it. “Yes. It is. Do you like trains?”

            “Uh huh.”

            “Dustin!” We both look up as Mrs. Moreno comes jogging down the hall. She looks concerned. Putting her hand to his back, she says, “I’m sorry, Mr. Malloy—I hope he wasn’t bothering you again—“

            “He wasn’t,” I say. “We were just talking.” I take a breath. I have to remind myself to breathe right now. My body has forgotten how to do some things today. I couldn’t remember how to walk at one point. When Derrell started crying in the cab, it took me a few seconds to remember how to move my hand. “I don’t know if Dustin has mentioned to you, but I apologized to him a few weeks back for grabbing him that one time. I’m—very embarrassed by my behaviour that evening. I’ve no excuse for it. I hope you’ll accept my apology as well.”

            She blinks—at least she knows how to—and says, “That’s—very nice of you, Mr. Malloy. A-Apology accepted.” She frowns. “Are—you all right?”

            I nod, putting on a tiny smile. “Yes. Thank you for asking.” I glance at the book in my hand. “Ah—I have this book. It’s about trains. And as it turns out, the young man it was meant for won’t be able to receive it. Dustin was just saying—that he likes trains. It’s not exactly _Dominic the Dragon_ , but—would it be all right if I gave it to him?”

            Mouth open a moment, Mrs. Moreno says, “Sure.”

            I don’t know why I’ve always thought of her as Mrs. Moreno. She’s no more than my age, and I’ve never seen a ring on her hand. Why is that the name I have for her in my mind? Leaning down, I say to Dustin, “It’s very heavy. Do you think you’ll be able to carry it?”

            He nods, and holds out his hands. I set the book on it, keeping the Thomas King one for myself. Dustin has to hold it against his chest with both hands, clearly struggling, but he manages to keep it up. His mother nudges him. “What do you say?”

            He gazes up at me with green eyes, and they fucking break my heart. “Thank you, Mr. Malloy.”

            “You’re welcome.” I nod to them. “If you’ll excuse me.” I slip around them, taking out my keys.

            As I put them in the lock, I hear the boy tell his mother, “His friend died, Mommy.”

            I let myself in, and I lock the world out.

 

I turn off my phone, and I proceed to get very drunk.

            I’ve a bottle of pinot noir that someone gave me for a birthday years ago that was very expensive, and that I’ve never had occasion to open. I take out the cork, and I don’t bother with a glass. I put on the first DVD I can find, and I watch _The Birds_. I drink straight from the bottle.

            When that movie ends, I put on _Psycho_. Halfway through, I finish the bottle, so I find a quarter full bottle of tequila that’s been sitting in my cupboard since my last Christmas party, and I don’t bother with a glass for that one either.

            My head is finally spinning like it’s supposed to be. Not because I’m in shock. It’s spinning because I’m very drunk.

            I feel sick. I throw up.

            I brush my teeth as the movie continues to play in the other room. Someone’s screaming. No idea why. I can’t remember how the movie ends. I don’t suppose it matters.

            I don’t go back to the living room. I stagger into the bedroom, and I need to hold onto my solid walls so that I don’t fall over. They’re cool against my face. I unbutton my pants, struggling out of them. Finally, I just sit down on the ground and kick them off.

            I could just stay down here. That’s a thing I could do.

            No. No, I don’t want to wake up on the floor.

            Rolling over, I pull out some pajama trousers, and manage to trip my way into them. Everything is moving about me. The world is the ocean and the room is the ship that’s sailing on it, and I’m swaying to and fro with the waves.            

            “Doesn’t matter,” I say. “Get through tonight, and we’ll deal with everything else tomorrow.”

            I start to laugh. I want to stop, because I think I might throw up again or start to cry. Clamping my hands over my mouth, I stand in the rocking room until my giggles have receded.

            That taken care of, I climb onto my bed. I fall on top of the sheets. That’s no good. I always need a blanket on top of me. Even in summer. I shimmy around until I’ve twisted the sheets onto my body.

            Stuffing my hands under the pillow, I lay on my stomach and listen to the voices in the other room and I fall asleep.

 

It feels like the white lights should hurt my eyes, but they don’t.

            I’m going to be spectacularly hung over when I wake up. That much is certain. Unfortunately, I feel extremely lucid right now.           

            I don’t want to be. I really, truly do not want to be.

            This isn’t where I should be. Right now, the last place I want to be is where it’s bright and clean and endless. I want to be in my bed, where it’s rumpled and there are walls and the space is finite. I want dark. I want to hide. God, I just want to hide.

            “Are—you awake?” After a moment, Harry ventures, “You know, relatively.”         

            I don’t want to talk to him tonight. I don’t want to talk to anyone. That’s not an option, though. Here I am. Still paying for my sins. Like I will forever.

            Putting my hands down, I push myself up until I’m sitting. I expect my head to spin, but it doesn’t. Shutting my eyes, I take a long breath, and steady myself.

            When Harry speaks again, his voice is much softer. “Are you all right?”

            I open my eyes. I don’t mince words. “Evan killed himself.”

            He doesn’t say anything. I didn’t expect him to. What does a person say to that? How do they respond? A child is dead. Words don’t really cover it.

            “I’m sorry.”

            I look off into the distance. It hurts to look at after a while. Right now, I think I need that. “Yeah.”  

            “Is that—I mean—“ I turn to look at him. Harry obviously has no idea what to do in this situation. I can read it all over him. He swallows, and says, “You were upset last night.”

            “Last night I was upset because we’re in a preposterous situation. Today I’m upset because a sixteen year old took his own life. One is slightly more pressing than the other.”

            Gone. Not coming back. He’s gone. He’s just gone.

            “He promised,” I say.

            “Sorry?”

            Blink. I need to remember to blink. “He promised me he wouldn’t. Last night—Us told everyone about him. Sent out a text, telling everyone that Evan wanted to kill everybody. I searched all over, finally got him on the phone. I made him promise not to hurt himself. And he promised me.”

            Harry has nothing to say. Of course he doesn’t.

            “When he got home, his mother called me. Said that he seemed fine. Upset, but okay. She made him promise too. She even said she was going to stay in the same room with him while he slept. And she did. Only she fell asleep, because she was tired. We were all tired. When she woke up, he was dead. And that’s it.”

            I look at him. I need him to say something. Do something. Somebody has to do something, because I don’t know what’s to be done.

            Harry rubs his hands over each other. A bit helpless, he says, “Draco, I’m sorry.”

            I cock my head. “Draco now, is it?” He blushes, ducking his head, and I can’t feel anything. I’m supposed to feel something and all I am is numb. I don’t know if I want to feel anything. If I started, I don’t know that I’d stop. “Well, only took one of my children dying to get that. Guess I know what terms we’re working on.”

            “You—I mean—you tried your best—“

            “Don’t—say that.”

            Harry pauses, then says, “You did, though. What you told me—you did try your best.”

            “No I didn’t. Because he’s dead.”

            “What else do you think you could have done?”

            “I could have gone over to the apartment and stayed there overnight.”

            I don’t know what I think of seeing pity on Harry Potter’s face. “His own mother couldn’t keep him alive. Don’t—don’t do this—to yourself.”

            “What do you care if I do?” I shrug. “I’m just—Malfoy to you. I’ll always just be—the past to you. And that’s fine. If that’s what I am to you—fine. But I don’t want to be here. I want to be in my life, in the present. If I had been thinking—if I could have focused—“

            “You’re not blaming me for this, are you?”

            My temper flares. “It’s not _about_ you!” He leans back, lifting his hands. “Are you listening? A child is dead, it is not—about—you.”

            “Okay—“

            “I put us here, I made a stupid mistake, and now I’m half in my life and half in the past and if I had been where I was supposed to be—if I had been in the present, like I’m supposed to be, this wouldn’t have happened, I would have seen it, I would have known—“

            I cut myself off with a shake of the head. I can’t do this. I will start and I won’t stop.

            Harry reaches out a little. “D—Malfoy—you don’t know that. You said it yourself—maybe he was just broken—“

            I break apart.

            “SHUT UP!”

            I’m on my feet and I don’t even know how I got there. I stare at him with absolute fury and my hands are curled so tight that I feel like my nails might cut my skin, but how dare he? _How dare he_?

            “Don’t you EVER say that about him! Don’t you ever, don’t you DARE—“

            Harry climbs to his feet, apologetic, holding out his hands. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said that, I didn’t mean to—“

            “It’s all well and good for you, isn’t it? The fucking saviour of all mankind, casting judgment on us mere mortals. Not all of us are fucking _perfect_ —“

            “I didn’t mean that—“

            “Some of us _are_ broken, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be fucking fixed!” I shout. “He was a child! He was sixteen! Sixteen years old, and he’s dead, he’s dead because he thought he was broken and he couldn’t be fixed, so don’t you stand there, don’t you stand there and cast judgment on him, you sick pompous fuck!”

            Harry’s shaking his head, eyes wide. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—“

            I turn away from him a moment, shoulders heaving. I think I might explode. I think I’m a bomb and I’m going to explode. Fuck him, fuck stupid Harry Potter, how could he—how could he possibly—

            “You!” I yell. “You’ll never fucking understand! You’ll never know what it’s like, to live with this thing inside you, this voice that says there will never be anything better, that you don’t deserve better, that the world is an ugly, impossible place, that it would be better if it was all torn down or if you were torn down. You don’t know what it’s like to wish someone dead, and mean it. You don’t know what it’s like to hate someone, hate someone with every fiber of your being, and not care who gets hurt. You don’t know what it’s like, to be that way, to be fucking _sixteen_ and be that way, and not know that it can be changed!” My voice breaks, and I insist, “It can be _changed_!”

            Things are coming out of me. I can’t breathe. I’m crying.

            “He’ll never get to know that!” I gasp, and I choke back a sob. I’m pointing at the ground and I don’t know why. “He’ll never know, because he’s gone, he’s sixteen and he’s gone and why him? Why him and not me? I’m no better, I was never any better, but I actually _hurt_ people, and I’m here and how is that fair? How the fuck is that fair? Tell me how that’s fair!”

            Harry mouths my name, but I can barely see it through my tears.

            I stagger away, hiccupping, and I stick my hands into my hair. “He’s dead. He’s dead and I’m here and I was supposed to save him. I was supposed to save him because I was saved and I didn’t and now he’s gone, he’s just gone, he’s gone.”

            My legs forget how to work.

            I hit the ground. I’m weeping, the way I do when things are shattered and I don’t know how to make it right. Putting my head in my hands, I rock myself back and forth.

            I failed. He was like me. I was supposed to keep him safe. I didn’t. He lied to me and I believed him and now I can never change that. I should have gone over there. I should have checked. If I had looked him in the eyes, I would have known.

            Or maybe I wouldn’t have. Maybe there was just no saving him. Maybe he was broken and there was nothing I could have done differently. Maybe I know that and that’s why it fucking hurts so much.

            Maybe.

            I don’t look up as fingers push my hair back from my face. I weep into my hands, unable to do anything else.

            “Shh—shh.” He tucks my hair back behind my ear.

            Wait. Wait, what?

            I lift my eyes, barely able to breathe. Harry’s kneeled in front of me. He’s looking at me with such concern that he doesn’t even realize what he’s done. Furrow between his brow, Harry murmurs, “Don’t cry.” He rests his hand on the side of my head. “Hey. Don’t cry.”

            All around us, the light begins to dim.

            I blink away my tears. “I suppose that’s it, then.”

            “What?” Harry looks up, then he looks at his hand in shock, lifting it from my head.

            I swallow, and say calmly, “I don’t suppose we shall see each other again.”

            Harry stares at me, then he grabs me by the arms. “Draco—Draco, tell me where you are.”

            The walls are disappearing. Faintly, I begin to see my room.

            I take one last opportunity to look at him. The first person I ever hated with all my being. What a waste of time that was. We were just children. I look at his beautiful green eyes and his fretted brow, and I think back to how badly I once wanted to be his friend.

            “Do something with your life,” I tell him.

            He shakes me. “Draco, tell me where you _are_.”

            His hands sink through me, and he pitches forward slightly, almost falling through me. For a moment, we are eye to eye, nearly nose to nose.

            Quietly, I say, “Goodbye, Harry Potter.”

            My room is all around me now. I’m sitting on my bed, and he’s kneeling in front of me, going transparent and speaking insistently, but I can’t hear him. I watch him until he completely fades away.

            Then I am alone.

            I sit on my bed by myself. Then I put my head down, and I weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Part One.  
> There will now be a three day break, and Part Two will begin on Friday.


	23. Part Two: Us

When I died, I woke into darkness.

            I couldn’t feel my body at first. There was no body. I was merely consciousness. There was me, and there was an absence of light, and there was fear.

            _Where am I?_

_What is this?_

            I remembered. The bathroom. The knife. I had died. This is what it was to die.

            I panicked. I had thought everything would end. But this—this was even worse. To be trapped in the dark, to still be.

            As I grew frantic, I began to feel my limbs. I had a body. I had form.

            I began flailing, trying to reach out. For a long time, I hung in space, unable to find purchase.

            _It can’t be worse_ , I realized. _It can’t be any worse than this_.

            That’s when my foot struck the wall.

            It echoed, and I stilled. After a moment, I realized that I could feel something under me. I was somewhere. This place had form too. I’d gotten into it, and that meant I could get out. I tried to calm myself down. Hysteria wasn’t going to get me out of this. It certainly hadn’t gotten me out of my predicament in the manor.

            So for the count of ten, I stayed exactly as I was, without moving. I strained for any sound. There was nothing. Just silence. I realized that I could breathe, and so I counted with my breaths.

            _Six…seven…eight…nine…ten_.

            With that, I got onto my knees. First things first. I lifted my hands, and touched my chest. I was startled to discover that I was naked, but I don’t suppose there was anything about the situation that wasn’t startling.

            Naked in the dark. Dead, naked, in the dark.

            _No_ , I thought, and I felt clothes appear beneath my fingers.

            Even though I was clothed, it suddenly became very cold. My teeth chattered. I searched for any source of light, but everything was black as pitch. Rubbing my arms, I raised my head and tried to speak.

            At first, nothing happened. It was like I had no tongue to speak with. But wishing made it so.

            “Hello?” I called.

            ‘Hello,’ echoed back to me, as if down a long hallway.

            It was familiar. It was terribly familiar.

            I tried to push the thought away, but once it lodged itself there was no being rid of it. _I can’t be. That’s not possible. It was destroyed_. But none of this was possible. I was dead. I was dead and I was still somehow—present.

            Lifting my hand, I hesitantly reached out. Slowly, my outstretched fingers moved through space.

            They met the wall. I jumped, but grazed over it with my fingertips. Once I had done that, there was no doubt in my mind.

            I was in the vanishing cabinet.

            “No,” I whispered.

            ‘No,’ the hallway whispered back.

            I reached out, laying both hands against the wall. I had spent so long in the cabinet, I knew what it felt like without sight. The walls were the same—it _smelled_ the same.

            Panic tore through me. I was dead and I was in the vanishing cabinet. That couldn’t happen. That couldn’t be how I spent—

            Eternity.

            I wanted to vomit. I shoved myself to my feet, and I began to stumble through the dark. If I had gotten into the cabinet, I would get out again. It had two entrances. I just had to keep going in one direction or the other until I found my way out. I could do it.

            I had to do it.

            Hands on the wall, I began to move forward. Turning, if I reached out I could touch both sides. Doing that, though, drove home how narrow the space was. So I clung to the one wall, picking up pace as I moved down the length of the hallway.

            I finally began to run. It occurred to me that perhaps it was endless.

            I started to scream for help. The hallway just cast my own voice back at me, trapping me in my own growing hysteria. “Help me!” _Help me_. “Is anyone there?” _Is anyone there_? “Please help me!”

            _Please help me_.

            I ran and ran and met nothing but empty space. It began to sink in, that this might be it—perhaps all I would now know was darkness, and the endless void of the vanishing cabinet, accompanied only by my own voice.

            Finally, I began to simply scream from terror.

            Forever. In the dark.

            A voice behind me hissed, “ _Draco_.”

            As I turned, a door opened in the wall, and I was snatched out and thrown to the floor.

            I struck the ground on my side, gasping for breath. Even after God knows how long in blackness, I did not need to adjust to the light. There was barely any. Just enough that I could see the towers above me. Piles and piles and piles of things.

            Of course. I had come out of the vanishing cabinet. Where would I be but the Room of Requirement?

            I turned to see who had pulled me from the cabinet. I stared up at him, speechless.

            Severus leaned over me, his face impassive. He spoke, voice as sinuous as a snake. “Apparently I have to tell you what you should have already known, young Malfoy—this is not a place you should desire to be.”

            I gazed at him, chest heaving. The ceiling above us was black. I could see no details of our surroundings, just the silhouettes of the towers.

            “You’re dead,” I whispered.

            “That’s not worthy of any house points.”

            “I’m—dead as well.”

            He raised one shoulder. “That—remains to be seen.” He extended a hand to me.

            Astonished, I took it. He pulled me to my feet, and I was able to look him in the eyes for the first time in half a year. He wore his usual expression—unimpressed, edging onto boredom. “How—how are we _here_?” I asked.

            Severus looked around himself. “Where do you think we are?”

            I frowned, confused. “It’s—it’s the Room of Requirement.”

            “Ah.” He lifted his head, and it was as if his eyes fell on different things.

            “Can you not see it?”

            “No. I see another place. But it is as dark as you must think it is.”

            “Is this—is this it? Is this where—where we end up?”

            Severus gave his head a shake. “No. Well—in my case, no. Yours, as I said, is a matter unresolved.” He turned, walking away. “Come. Sit, Draco.”

            He sat down on a bench. I stayed where I was a moment, frightened, but then I glanced at the gaping maw of the vanishing cabinet and scampered after him. He flicked his robes off his hands, that same old fluid motion, long fingers set upon his crossed legs. I sat down beside him, hunched.

            “You’ve made a preposterous mess of things, haven’t you.”

            “I couldn’t stay there,” I whispered.

            He let out a dry snort. “Yes, this is infinitely preferable.”

            “Neither is. Neither is…better.”

            I shrivelled under his gaze. “Draco, I realize that you’ve fallen a very long way, but you’re not possibly that idiotic.”

            I looked him in the eyes. “Do you know where they put me? Do you know where I have to be?”

            “No one ever promised that the victors must show kindness, Draco. You certainly wouldn’t have, if the roles had been reversed.”

            “There’s blood—everywhere. It’s cold. We’re alone.”

            “That is not what you should concern yourself with.”

            Frustrated, I said, “Then what the hell should I be?”

            Severus smirked a bit at that. I imagine he was glad to see I hadn’t completely lost my spine. “You should be far more concerned about this place.”

            “I don’t want _either_.”

            “That is a possibility that is open to you.”

            Desperate, I asked, “How?”

            “Avenues that may not be appealing.”

            “I’ll do anything.”

            “Anything?”

            “ _Yes_.”

            He said, “An open mind, and very hard work. That is how you escape these places.”

            “I—I don’t understand.”

            “I thought not.” He drew his robes closer around himself. “Do you know where you are?”

            “Hell,” I guessed.

            “A tempting theory. But no. This—is the place you come before….” He glanced at me. “Going on.” I shook my head, confused. “Some, when they die, see a location meant for travel. The docks, perhaps. They wait for a ship to come for them. Or a car, to take them the rest of the way. Others, though—arrive at a place like this.” He studied whatever he saw with disdain. “Like the nightmare testing out what frightens you most before fully unfolding.”

            “This gets worse?”

            “It can always get worse. That’s what you’ll discover. If you choose to stay here.”

            I blinked at him, then leaned forward. “Choose?”

            “You can choose to go back. To try again.”

            I shut down. “To the manor? I can’t go back to the manor, I—“

            “Stop your snivelling, and listen to me.” That shut me up. All the many years I had known him, he had never spoken to me like that. One of my worst fears came back with full force: he had pretended with so many people for so long. Had he pretended with me? Severus looked at me, and his expression softened, incrementally. “No. I did not pretend with you.”

            “C-Can you hear me?”

            “This is a strange place. Things are—different. There is no legilimency in this place.”

            Realizing, I said, “You didn’t come here. You went—to the better place. Because—because you’re on their side.”

            “Draco—“

            “And I’m here because I’m evil.”

            “Do _not_ be so melodramatic.”

            I drew myself up. “I’ll be however I please. I’m dead.”         

            Severus looked at me, then gave his head a shake.

            “I’m—I’m not?”

            “You’re currently being apparated to St. Mungo’s. Your heart is about to stop. In a second, if you choose not to go back, it will not begin again.”

            “I don’t understand. Who—why am I being allowed to choose? Don’t—“ I looked around, and said helplessly, “Don’t I belong here?”

            “Do you think you belong here?”

            I looked down into my lap. I was dressed all in black. Not even my pale skin escaped the shadows of this place. It was already claiming me. “Yes,” I whispered.

            Severus bent forward, forcing my gaze. “I _don’t_ ,” he said forcefully.

            I didn’t understand. He wasn’t on my side. He had pretended—he had been working against us the whole time. He pretended to be our friend, and through it all he did everything to tear down our world.

            “The world you would have made, Draco—it would have made this appear like the pleasantest of dreams. The Dark Lord—the things he made you _do_ —“ I dropped my gaze. “You were a child. They twisted you. They did this to you. What you became—to this point, it has not been your doing. That is why you are being allowed to choose. From this point forward, you are responsible for what you become.”

            “I can’t—I _am_ this—“

            “Not unless you choose it. Draco— _think_. You are clever. You have always been clever. But your loyalty to your family has blinded you. It even blinded you to the simple difference between right and wrong.”

            I snapped, “You are not so high and mighty. No one forced you to put that mark on your arm.”

            Sighing, Severus said, “No. I chose it freely. And I was a _fool_. I did it from malice. From injury. I did it because I thought—I would be revenged upon those who had wounded me. That something was taken from me that I was entitled to. Entitled.” He muttered the word, as if in disgust with himself. “In return—it cost me everything. Everything I ever cared about.”      

            I hesitated, then said, “Harry Potter.” Severus made the same face he always had when that name was mentioned. Like he had bitten into a rancid lemon. “They say…they say you protected him. That you saved him.”

            “With the greatest of reluctance, let me assure you.”

            “They…say you did it for his mother.”          

            For a long moment, Severus said nothing. Then he gave one brisk nod of the head. “My ignorance, my anger, cost me—the most important person who ever was. When you make a mistake that grievous—you are not allowed the luxury of choosing how you make redress.” He folded his arms. “Though to be frank, if he’d had more of his mother to him than his eyes, perhaps I would have hated him a little less.”

            At last, I smiled. Something made sense. Severus still hated Harry. It couldn’t all have been fake.

            “My affection for you was never false, Draco. You were my favourite. You were always my favourite. That was not coerced or play acted.” He thought, then smiled slightly. “Do you remember that day in the manor, when you were five? You showed me a magic trick.”

            “You never told anyone,” I said, smiling weakly.

            “That was extraordinary power for a child your age. I knew you would be a force to reckon with. And you were. You _are_.” Severus inhaled. “However—you inherited some of the less admirable qualities of the Malfoys and the Blacks.” I bit into my lip. “Don’t be disheartened, Draco. I never told you about my parents. Believe me—“ Severus glowered. “I know the difficulty of escaping one’s blood lines.”

            “My parents—my parents love me.”

            “They do. They have also done their level best to ruin you for the outside world.” I bristled, and Severus said, “Narcissa and Lucius brought you to this point. As if they carried you on their shoulders and deposited you—“ He pointed past me with a spindly index finger. “In there.”

            I glanced back to the open vanishing cabinet. It was as if it waited for me. I shuddered, but said, “They never meant for me to be hurt.”

            “As you are blinded by family, so are they. But in a different way from you. You love them, so you will not admit their faults. They love—their name. They love you, yes, but their love of the name they carry—it’s led them to acts of madness. They would have destroyed you, and the rest of the world too. All for a grotesque ideology that would mean the end. The end of all things.” Severus winced, as if bracing himself. “There would be no green in— _Voldemort’s_ world, Draco. Nothing would be living, had he won.”

            Afraid of the answer, I asked, “Is—he here?”

            “What remains of him…is in a place much different from this.” Severus’ eyes grew hard as flint. “One hopes that he suffers until the stars fall from the sky.”

            It was bizarre to hear him speak like that. He, who had appeared so endlessly loyal to the Dark Lord in life.

            “I lied, yes. I lied to keep you all safe.” He frowned. “I lied to keep _you_ safe.” He looked around the dark place. “And yet—here you are.”

            “I—“ He turned to me. I swallowed. “I don’t—want to stay here.”

            “So you’ll return.” I slumped with relief, only Severus said, “But do not believe for one moment that you will not come back here, when you die again.”

            Astonished, I said, “Well—what the fuck’s the point of leaving at all, then?”

            He smiled at that, really smiled. “The point, young man, is that you change.”

            “I—“ Helpless, I shrugged. “I’m—this. I’ve always been this. How am I supposed to—change?”

            “By not repeating the mistakes you’ve already made. By not repeating the mistakes your parents made. That—would be a terrible pity. And a waste of all our time.” Severus paused, then leaned over. “I’m not supposed to tell you this. But since I know you can keep a secret—“

            He nodded me over. I bent forward a few inches.

            Severus murmured, “I was headed for a place like this. Everyone believed it about me. Instead, the place I am now—it is everything. It is everything, Draco. It is everything.”

            I did not understand his words, but the tone of his voice—the way he said it, I ached. The wonder there. The gratitude.

            Everyone had thought Severus Snape was a terrible dark wizard. A murderer. Only now—he wasn’t in a place that was endless and dark. He had gone somewhere good. He had gone where he deserved.

            “We all go where we deserve. If you remember that—if you do all that is in your power to cast off these chains you have borne since birth—you will go to the place that you deserve. And it will look _nothing_ like this.”

            “How?”

            “You know how.”

            “I can’t just—they’re not like us. They’re—“

            “Draco. I’m half blood myself, as you’ll remember. Did you consider me inferior to you?”

            I studied him, then said fiercely, “Never.”

            “Every person is the exception to the rule. There is no us versus them. It is you, and him, and her, and her, and him, and her, and everyone. There are no sides save good and evil and you were not meant for the latter. It is time to be better.” Snape smiled sadly. “Someday, a long time from now, when you go on, I would like to be able to visit you. I would not be allowed—“ He glanced contemptuously at our surroundings. “Further than where this leads.”

            Visit.

            I paused but a moment before asking, “Have you seen her?” He looked at me, startled, but I did not back down.

            Severus thought a moment, then pursed his lips. “Some things—some things can never be spoken.” I nodded. I was a little embarrassed to have asked. “This I can tell you.” His voice lowered, but its intensity rose. “We can _all_ of us be forgiven. All of us.” He gazed into my eyes, determined. “And Merlin knows if _I_ can be forgiven, you should do just fine.”

            He had seen her.

            “How can I—“ I swallowed. “How do I just—change? How do I be someone—better?”

            “It will be a task of many years. It will be more difficult than you can imagine. You simply won’t wake up tomorrow and think yourself the equal of muggles.” Severus sighed. “It’s a task I was still working on myself when I died. Once you do, though, you will understand far more than before. As it is, Draco, it will be a great undertaking. One equal to your tenacity, to your strength of character. This is a foe you will defeat. It is within your grasp. Reward, however, never comes without sacrifice.”      

            I rubbed my arms. It was so cold in this place. I never wanted to see it again.

            “If…I work hard enough…I won’t have to come back here again?”

            “Never again,” Severus said. He nodded. “I promise.”

            “And…someday we’ll see one another again?”

            His thin lips turned upwards. “Yes.”

            “I….” How could I explain it to him? All that had happened, how could I have it make sense? “I’m sorry. For everything. For…how I treated you in sixth year.”

            “That is but a small matter. You are forgiven, nonetheless.” He looked down a moment. “And I am sorry as well.”

            “For what?”

            “For the lies. I wanted to—you will never know how many times I wanted to tell you—how things really were. How they truly are. If I had…perhaps you would not have come to this. I wanted…very much to save you, Draco. The thing of it is—some people—some pompous, egotistical little fools with ridiculous hair for example—would have you believe that the glory comes in saving another person. Glory is but a distraction from the real work of a life.”

            “What is that?”

            “You must save yourself. And you must raise others with you. You cannot save them either. But you can show them the way.” He exhaled, upset with himself. “As I should have done when I was living. Instead, we must sit here in this terrible place, and I must use my limited skills of persuasion on you in a small amount of time.”

            I loved him. I could see him start as I thought it, but I did. Not for the first time, I wished we shared blood. I wished he was my kin.

            “I think you’re being self-effacing,” I said. “Didn’t you convince the Dark Lord of your loyalty?”

            Severus sniffed. “He wasn’t that difficult. You—you’re a teenager. That is a far greater struggle.”

            I took one last look around. I didn’t mean to ever return to this wretched place. “I’ll…do my very best, sir.”

            “You don’t know it yet, but I think that you will.” He reached over, and wrapped his hand around mine. He had never done that before. I squeezed his hand. Severus asked, “Are you ready to try once more?”

            I didn’t want to leave him. But he was going to someplace better. At least I knew that. I nodded. We would see one another again.

            “Do you know—when Potter died, he asked if this was all real or if he was dreaming.”

            I rolled my eyes. “He’s so fucking thick. I can’t believe I have to kiss his arse—I don’t, do I? If I go back, do I have to like him or something?”         

            “Salazar’s name,” Severus drawled, “I would _never_ send you back if you did.” We smiled at each other. “Until we meet again.”

            “Goodbye for now. Severus.”

            And then there was light.


	24. Chapter 24

Kicking the office door shut behind myself, I loosen my tie. Then I pull the damn thing off entirely, tossing it on the desk. I stick my hands into my hair. My head is pounding.

            The service was tiny. I think a total of twenty showed, though I didn’t exactly do a head count. Joanna was just glad that any of us came. She has Evan’s eyes. It was hard to look at her. She has my number. She knows she can call me any time. I’ll call her later in the week, make sure she’s—not okay, because that would be ludicrous, but still there.

            I’ve been walking around in a bit of a stupor the last few days. It’s not even eleven on a Monday morning and I want this week to be over. School starts on Wednesday. I can’t even contemplate how I’m going to deal with the boys on Friday.

            I don’t even know if I _can_.

            There’s going to be a drop-in this afternoon. If the boys want to come in to talk. It doesn’t start until one. But I’m not going back to Brooklyn just to apparate back over here in three hours.

            The office is a bit of a mess. I don’t think anyone’s really been concentrating on keeping it clean since Friday. I’ll feel better if I tidy up a bit.

            So I unfasten my cuffs, and start to roll back my sleeves. I have a change of clothes that I can get into before the drop-in starts. I don’t want to look like I’m dressed for a funeral in front of the boys.

            Victor cried. I wasn’t surprised by that. He’s a soft hearted kid. Michael, that was more of a shock. I left the funeral home and he was sitting out back, wiping his eyes rhythmically. Not making a big deal about it, just having it out.

            Since my one big cry, I haven’t shed any more tears. I just walk around with this cursed headache and a feeling of dread.

            I’m collecting papers off the desk when there’s a knock at the door. It’s not hesitant, like the boys would be. Good—I don’t think I could deal with it yet. I need some time to prepare. “Enter!”

            The door opens, and a tall, handsome man with eyes like night leans in. He beams at me. “Hey.”

            I stare at him a minute. “Jesus! Ty!”

            With a laugh, he steps inside. “Hey, Draco.”

            Dropping everything, I come around the desk to hug him. “I didn’t know you were back!”

            He’s taller than me. Stronger than me too. When the hell did it happen that this man could or would envelop me in his arms? Squeezing me, Ty says, “I wanted to surprise you. I got back a couple days ago.”

            “Let me have a look at you.” I hold him at arm’s length. He’s wearing a suit, the jacket laid over his arm. Everything fits him perfectly, and I adore the blue pinstriping on his shirt. “Don’t you look posh.”

            “Why thank you. Now what the hell did you do to your hair?”

            “My hair is glorious. Fuck off.”

            He laughs, baring pearly white teeth. “You got a couple minutes?”

            “Are you kidding?” I gesture for him to sit down. “I always have time for you.” I take the seat next to him, looking him over. I can’t believe this is the same boy I met eight years ago. “Speaking of your hair, what on earth is happening with yours?”

            “Don’t make fun of my fade. You know how much work it takes to keep this right?” He sets his satchel on his lap, taking a deep breath. “Well!”

            A thought occurs to me. “Roderick said he had a surprise. Is this it?”

            Ty shrugs, smiling. “Surprise.”

            “Well played. When did your flight get in?”

            “Friday afternoon. I had to make the rounds first. You know my family. And I wanted to have a look at my office.”

            “Your office. That just sets me all aflutter, Ty.”

            “Yeah, well—“ He settles in, fixing me with a knowing look. “I’m here to tell you something.”

            Pulling back, I warn, “Ty, I have had—a weekend like few other weekends. You do not want to spring anything on me right now—“

            “Chill. Nothing bad. I wanted to tell you something.” Ty looks me square in the eyes, and says, “I wouldn’t be where I am if it wasn’t for you.”

            I slide down my chair, squirming. “Don’t do this to me—“

            “Shut the hell up, listen to what I’m telling you. I’ve had a lot of time over the past few years to think about how things have gone for me. And honestly? I worked for this like people would never believe. I’ve got degrees now that I earned through blood, sweat, and tears. But I would have never had the balls to get on this path unless you gave me that shove.”

            Wincing, I say, “There’s no more, is there?”

            “There’s more. Not only did you give me that shove, but you kept on me. And when I had it handled, you stepped back. But you stayed in touch. You never let me forget that you had my back. That’s rare, Draco. I want you to know how much I appreciate that, and how I want to be that person for somebody else. I will be that person for somebody else. A lot of people helped me along the way, don’t get me wrong. But when I think about how I got here, you’re the one I think of first.”

            “You saved yourself.”

            “And you’re the one who told me I could.” Ty opens up his bag. “I know you’re not sentimental—but I also know you like having trophies.” He pulls out what looks like a picture frame, and smiles at it affectionately. “I’ve kept this a long time. I kept it on my wall every year at Columbia, and I took it with me to England too. But now, I really want to give this to you.” He passes it to me.

            It’s a school report of some kind, framed. Something about B.F. Skinner, whoever that is. There’s an A on the front, circled, with the word ‘Excellent’ written underneath.

            “Do you know what that is?” I shake my head. Ty points at it. “That’s the first A I ever got in university. I asked you to help me with that paper. You know what you said to me?”

            The memory drifts back to me. “I said no. I said that you could do it on your own. That you knew you could do it on your own.”

            “And I did. So I want you to have that.”

            I touch the edge of the picture frame. There’s a pang in my throat. No tears. I didn’t cry at the funeral, I’m not going to over a school report.

            Because I don’t trust myself to speak at first, I reach over and touch his arm. “You are—an uncommonly kind man,” I say, strained. “And this is very sweet.” I take hold of the frame with both hands. “I shall have to put this in pride of place.”

            Part of me wants to touch it, but I can’t be leaving fingerprints all over it. So I just let my fingers hover above the glass pane.

            I look over when he strokes my arm. He gives me a kind smile. “You okay?”

            My voice is still not going to do what I want, so I nod.

            Gently, Ty says, “I heard you lost one of the boys this weekend.”

            Swallowing hard, I bite into my lower lip before nodding again. “Yeah.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            One of my boys. Nearly all summer, I was saying that Evan wasn’t one of my boys. And now—I’ve lost boys before, I’ve had one kill himself before, but it’s never felt like this. “I, um…I’m not taking it very well.”

            His hand slips down, and wraps around mine. “If you were, that would be the real problem.”

            I let out a shaky laugh. “Are you using your psychology degree on me?”

            “Just common sense.”

            A moment goes by, and I look down at his hand. He’s not making an effort to pull away. “Is that all right?” I ask.

            Ty’s hold loosens. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—“

            “No, I mean—if a handsome man wants to hold my hand while I feel an utter basket case, far be it from me to argue.” I look at him. “I just—thought you might….”

            Ty inhales, and says, almost sheepish, “I came out. As bi. It—took me having to be on another continent before I could say it, but—that’s a thing that’s happened.”

            “So what you’re saying is I won’t be faced with any hetero panic if I need to hold onto you like a life preserver until the urge to sob hysterically passes.”

            “Well—one, Draco, if you want to cry, that’s fine. Second, you hold my hand as long as you need to.”

            I exhale, and look at him in admiration. “I am so proud of you. I am so fucking proud of you, every single day of your life.”

            He smiles at me. “I’m proud of you too.”

            He holds my hand, and I manage not to cry.

 

“Know what I’ve been thinking of for the last year?” Ty shakes his head, reaching past me to open up the door. Been a long time since a man opened a door for me. “Mrs. Wong’s empanadas.”

            I let out a bark, feeling this heavy thing in my gut lessen a little more with every moment we’re together. “For the love of God—you’re in the heart of Nuyorico, and you’re going to stand there with a straight face and tell me the empanadas you want were made by a Chinese woman?”

            “Hell yes.” He walks close to me, almost protectively. Am I really coming off that fragile right now? That would be a first. “I do not discriminate empanadas on the basis of their origin, Mr. Malloy. With that oyster sauce?”

            I gag. “Can’t we go to Spice Grill?”

            “Jesus, Draco—I’ve been in England the past year. I’ve eaten enough curry for a lifetime. I want empanadas! With oyster sauce!”

            This time I duck ahead to get the door to the outside. “I suppose. If I have to eat the sodding oyster sauce, you’re paying, though.”

            “A poor student like me?” Ty says with big puppy dog eyes.

            “Poor student,” I mutter as we step out into the sunlight. I’m glad I took the time to change out of my funeral clothes and into summer wear. My Sufjan tank top over shamelessly tight jean capris, a very light grey cardigan. I’m not wearing my boots—I’ve got my emerald green Converse All Stars. I’ve left my wand under lock and key in the office. “Aren’t you the one with the fancy office?”

            “Yeah, as a provisional psychologist. Provisional, Draco.”

            “Is your office larger than the one I’ve got back there, that I share with three other people?”

            After a moment, his mouth spreads into a grin. “Yeah.”

            “Then shut up and buy me your disgusting empanadas.”

            He laughs, adam’s apple bobbing up and down. I smile, walking by his side with my hands in my pockets. The heat is rising off the asphalt of the basketball court. At least Wong’s has air conditioning. And I’ll never say this in front of my Puerto Rican friends, but Mrs. Wong really does make the best empanadas in New York. I know—heresy. Leanna would have me killed.

            Ty’s saying something, but I’ve raised my head, looking across the court, and I can’t help but find the lone figure standing on the other side of the chain link fence. When I see him, my step slows, then stops.

            Ty looks back, finding that I’m no longer with him, then follows my gaze.

            I take a deep breath. The heavy thing is sitting in my guts again. “I’ll be unable to do lunch.”

            “You want me to stick around?”

            “No. No, this is one I’ll have to do myself.” I give him a little smile. “We’re still on for Wednesday, though?”

            “You know it.”

            He holds out his arms, and I step into them. It’s pretty nice, to have someone bigger than me wrap me up in his arms. I guess I didn’t quite know how much I would need it today.

            Stepping back, Ty says, “Call me if you need anything.”

            “That’s my line,” I call after him. He casts me a grin over his shoulder.

            I take a moment to steady myself. Now’s the time to be the grown up. I have to be the rock.

            That in mind, I cross the court to the open space in the chain link fence. Us glances at me every few seconds, fidgeting with the laces of his hoodie. Layers—why the hell do these kids feel compelled to wear so many layers?

            I come around the fence to face him. I’ll let him speak first. If he’s here, he has something to say.

            Us shifts from foot to foot, swallowing. He’s unable to look me in the eyes. He rolls the ends of his hoodie ties between his fingers, chewing hard on his lip. His face is contorted.

            After close to ten seconds, he says, “I’m sorry, Dre.” His voice breaks, and his face crumples. “I’m so sorry, man. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry—“

            I’m crossing the space, and I wrap him up in my arms. I pull his head down on my shoulder as he starts to weep. He grabs me, holding me so tight around the middle that it strains my ribs. Burying his face in my shoulder, he sobs, telling me again and again that he’s sorry.

            I hold onto him, and I stroke the back of his head. “I know you are,” I whisper. After a moment, I brush at my own eyes. “I know you are.”

 

Arms hanging between his knees, Us says, “I killed him.”

            “No,” I say immediately. I put my hand between his shoulder blades. “No you didn’t.”

            We’re sitting out back of the center, in the shade. We’re where the kids go to smoke, because it’s hidden from the street. The staff will chase them off, then light up themselves.

            Us is still crying a little, brushing occasionally at his cheeks with his thumb. “I did. I made him do it.”

            “No. Demetrius. Us—listen to me—you didn’t do this.”

            “Well I sure as hell didn’t _help_!” he says, voice a touch hysterical.

            I pat his back. “All right. I’ll give you that.” I look him over. He’s wrecked. This one will follow him the rest of his days. I can’t help but think that might be for the best. “I need you to listen to what I’m going to tell you. Evan made a choice. Each person makes their own choice.”

            “And I chose to do what I did, and that made him choose to fucking kill himself!”

            He starts to break down again, and I need to take a breath. I could have been having empanadas right now. “Us—do you think that this was out of the blue? Do you think that nobody had any warning? That this was a surprise?”

            “I dunno—“

            “You read his journals, I take it.”

            He gasps. “Oh God.” He puts his head in his hands, shaking it.

            “I’ll take that as a yes. So you know that a lot of that anger he had—it was aimed at himself. You know he’d thought about this for a long time.”

            “I knew it but I—I didn’t _know_ it, I didn’t think, I just—I just said it and now he’s dead.” Us shudders. “I can’t fix that.”

            “Evan’s gone. We can’t fix that,” I agree. “We can only move forward. After it stops feeling so fucking terrible.”

            I pull my hand away, and wrap my arms around my knees. Another day of blistering heat. Seemed strange to have a funeral on a hot day. When I think of funerals, I think of a bunch of people standing around an open grave in the rain, in their dress robes and holding up umbrella charms. Evan will be cremated. Or has been already. I don’t know the time table on things like that. Where he goes after, Joanna didn’t say, and I certainly wasn’t going to ask.

            “When’s that supposed to happen?”

            “You know I don’t have the answer to that.”

            Us sits up, dropping his head back heavily against the wall. “Somebody has to know. Somebody has to—know how to make this….”

            “They don’t. It’s just a thing that needs to be lived through, and everyone does it on their own time.”

            “Dre…you know, if I could take it back—“

            “No more of that. You’ve said it. And I know that you mean it. But if you keep saying it, you’ll never stop. It does no one any good if you can’t say anything but ‘sorry’ for the rest of your life.”

            Us looks over at me. “How—are you doing?” I bark, trying to keep my lips over my teeth. “That was a stupid question.”

            “Yes, but I appreciate you asking.”

            “You tried so hard with him—“

            “Demetrius, I—I don’t think I can talk about Evan and I right now. I can talk about whatever you’re going through, but I feel like—raw exposed nerves are just under the surface and if I don’t hold myself tight and close they’ll come out in the light. I’ve already had a long, ugly cry about it, but that’s all I’m allowing myself. So we’ll just leave whatever I’m going through alone, all right? Let’s focus on you.”

            He sighs, shaky. “We focus on me, it’ll just be what a shitty person I am. I’m—sorry—“

            “Didn’t I just say—“

            “Not for that. I mean—I want to say it twenty times in a row, even if it feels—like ashes, like air, like it’s got no goddamn weight to it, man. But—I got set off ‘cause I was a dick to you. I _pushed_ you. Jesus, what’s wrong with me?”

            I reply, “You’re sixteen and you know everything. Except for when you don’t. And that’s terrifying. So you go back to the illusion that you do know everything, and it feeds on itself.” I rub my hands over my shins. “Special circumstances—you don’t fuck up at all in September, you come to all the meetings, and I’ll pull your suspension from the center. But if you put one toe out of line, we’ll start the six months from that day. And if you’re still serious about going to law school, putting yourself out of reach of all the people who’re trying to help you really wouldn’t be a smart idea.”

            Us is staring at me. I raise a brow. “You still…want to help me.”

            “Of course I do.”

            “I called you a freak.”

            “I am a freak.”

            “I called him a freak. I texted everybody—I _told_ everybody—I don’t deserve—“

            I lift a hand, cutting him off. “Sometimes—it isn’t a matter of what you deserve. It’s a matter of what you owe.” I gesture around us. “Do you think I came to this because I deserved a job where people looked up to me, depended on me? This occupation found me because I had debts to pay.” I wrap my arms around my shins again. “I know it’s fresh right now, and you’re sick with grief, and you might not want to hear it, but this needs to be something you learn from, that you use. You need to remember this, and make a promise to yourself that you’ll make it right. You can’t fix what happened. But you make sure it never happens again. Don’t promise me, either. Promise yourself. If you can’t live up to it, you’ll be far more disappointed in yourself than I could ever be.”

            Us swallows. “He thought I was his friend. And I did him like that. Everybody—everybody knows what I did. Everyone’s saying I killed him.”

            “What are you going to do about it?”

            “What am I supposed to do about it?”

            I shake my head. “I’m the wrong person to ask. I’m in exile for my sins, aren’t I.”

            “You’re…pissed at me, huh.”

            I consider lying to him. I don’t think I have the wherewithal for it today. “I am. But that is far outweighed by how much I care about you. You’re one of mine. Make no mistake about it.”

            “Are you mad at me ‘cause I killed him?”

            “No,” I say patiently. I feel like that’s a question I might have to answer repeatedly. “I’m mad because…what you did to Evan, that’s something I would have done. When I was your age. Without a doubt. See—Evan reminded me of myself. Parts of me that I’ve managed to put to rest. Only you remind me of myself too. It’s difficult to see parts of your younger self reflected back, especially when it’s the pieces that you….Being sixteen is awful. It’s just fucking awful, Us.”

            “What do I do? What the hell am I gonna do?” Before I can speak, Us says, “This one time, man. This one time. I need someone—I need someone to tell me what the hell to do.”

            Suppose he does. Not often that Us asks me for direction.

            “Hold your head up. Don’t hit anyone back. Take it until you’ve learned something. Promise yourself, never again.” I glance at him. “And don’t ever lay your hands on me in anger again, or I’ll turn you into a fucking toad.”

            He smiles, then sobers. “Seriously?”

            I shrug. “One of my teachers turned me into a ferret once. I turned out all right.” I think about it. “More or less.”

 

Before Victor can open his mouth, I lift a hand. “Not another word about Us being here. If I have to repeat myself one more time—“ I don’t even finish the sentence. I leave the threat open, hanging there in the air, putting the hand against my head, other arm wrapped around myself.

            Victor takes a few seconds, then starts talking about how he wishes he had been nicer to Evan.

            I’m at the head of the circle, leaning back against the desk at the front of the room. I don’t feel like I can sit down right now. I feel half sparked with energy and half ready to fall over from exhaustion. Best thing to do is stay on my feet.

            I half listen. Occasionally, I’ll glance up at the windows to see if anyone’s coming across the basketball court. I’ve got a total of seven boys here, and I don’t know who else would show, but just in case.

            Us sits on my right hand side, keeping his mouth shut and listening to what everyone has to say. I think he feels pretty hurt about when Michael walked in and said, “What the fuck’s he doing here?”

            I’m still a bit astonished by how Michael’s acted this past week. He’s never gone out of his way with one of the others before. And he was days away from being free of this. He starts college on Wednesday.

            So I’m down to the five: Zion, Richie, Victor, Yadiel, and Us. And whoever else Derrell throws at me when the school year starts. The thought is like hooks being thrown around me, dragging me down by ropes thick as my wrist. Just moving forward, like nothing has happened. I’ve been doing that for a lot of years. I’m not sure how long I can keep doing this.

            That’s the grief talking. I’ll do this because I’ve always done this. It’s my passion, and my penance.

            For some reason, it’s my father’s voice I hear in my head. _Like the dragon we rise_.

            Victor’s stopped talking, and thank God I’ve been half listening so I can reply. “Victor, I think you’re being pretty hard on yourself. I believe that everyone in this room can attest to the fact that you were always very nice to Evan. In fact, you’re the only person I can ever remember who really made him laugh. I actually promised myself, I made it a personal mission, that I’d try to get him to laugh the way you did. As someone who’s watched the both of you, I can say without a doubt that he was very fond of you, and you never caused him any harm, and nothing you could have done would have changed what happened. You know that I wouldn’t lie to you. There was nothing you could have done differently. Now, the job is to keep this in your mind. Every person you meet, every interaction you have, think to yourself—if this is the last time, is this what I want to say? Is this how I want to be? It’s an impossible task. However, it is a noble one. And if you’re constantly striving to make this world better, kinder, you’ll do wonderful things. You have a big heart, and you’ve demonstrated that again today. Thank you for that.”

            He nods, starting to cry again, and mumbles, “Thanks, Dre.”

            Sleep. I want sleep.

            “Michael?” I ask. “You’ve been relatively quiet.” It’s a gentle tease. He’s always the quietest of my boys. “Is there anything you want to say?”

            He shifts in his seat, knees spread wide, eyes impassive.

            “I _was_ Evan,” he says, and that stops us all where we are. “After my brother died…after what happened to him, all I could think was…the world, it’s so…damn ugly. People who are…good…nice…they’re just tricking themselves. I got into animals…after Benjamin…’cause people…I didn’t think they were worth a damn. Then this guy…this guy up the street, he ran with the guy who killed Benjy. We all know who done it…everyone in this room knows who done it…but he wasn’t ever arrested. Not for Benjy. He got himself shot. He’s in a wheelchair. But his bro, he thought…guess he thought I had something to do with it. I came home one night, and my dog…Leonidas…he was all cut up. Not dead, but we had to put him down because he was so messed up. And this guy, he told everybody what he did. He didn’t care. And I thought…people, they ain’t just not worth it. They’re evil.” Michael sits there a moment, gazing at the ground. “I started thinking. About doing things. I started planning. I even got a gun.” He lifts his eyes, looking across the circle at Us. “You’re the one who pulled me out of that. You said I should come here. Even before you started coming. You knew what I was, and you didn’t…you had my back. You had my back all the way. So with this kid…with Evan…I knew what he was thinking. I knew what he was going through. I been there. I was him. I wanted to lift him up. The way you lifted me up. The way Dre did, way the others guys did. But you fucking sunk him, man. You acted like a goddamn child instead of a goddamn man, and now a kid’s dead. I love you, you’re my brother and all that, but I don’t know what the hell you think you’re gonna do to make this right.”

            He crosses his arms, and doesn’t say anything else.

            Jesus. That’s the most Michael says, combined, in a year. Still waters, I suppose.

            Us is hunched over, patting his hands together. Only I see the moment.

            He takes a deep breath, and sits up straight. He sets his hands on his thighs, and looks directly back at Michael. “I hear you. I made a bad mistake. An awful mistake. I can’t change that. But I’m never going to make a mistake like that again. Dre’s gonna say that it wasn’t my fault, that—Evan made his own choices. But I think…what I do affects you, and what you do affects me, and so we’re all tied up in this together. And I hurt him. I hurt him bad. Can’t fix that, man. I know I can’t. I let you down. I let him down. I let everybody down. This is on my bones now, man. I’m not ever gonna forget it. I’m sorry, Mike. I shoulda done better. I will do better.”

            This is all…exceedingly healthy. Honest, open communication. What in the fuck is happening? When did these boys become so mature?

            “Okay,” I say, for want of anything else. I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I had that kind of level headedness. I’m faking it, and maybe I’m faking it well, but at the moment I feel like a fraud. I look up, out the window to the basketball court, checking for any late comers.

            I don’t understand.

            I focus solely on what I’m seeing, which is obviously an apparition of some sort. It has to be. It doesn’t make sense any other way. There’s no reason Harry Potter would be standing on the basketball court.

            He puts up a hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight, having a look at the center, and so he can’t be an apparition because what spectre needs to protect their eyes? But he can’t be here. He can’t actually be here. That would be ludicrous.

            Only he pulls a map from his pocket, unfolding it and consulting it before looking at the building once more. Good God. I think he might actually be here.

            As if he can sense my shock, this possible hallucination turns and looks through the window at me from sixty feet away.

            Someone says my name, but I don’t move my eyes a millimetre. If I do, I think he might vanish, and then I’ll know that I’m crazy, and of all the things to deal with right now, being crazy is not one of them.

            “Stay here,” I say hoarsely. “Don’t move from your seats.” I push away from the desk and leave the room, watching the window until the split second I pass through the door.

            As soon as I have, I pick up pace and jog down the hall. He’s not really out on the court. That would be mad. There’s no reason for him to be here. Even if there was, how could he have found me? No. This isn’t possible. It simply isn’t.

            I push through the door onto the basketball court, taking a few stumbling steps outside before coming up short.

            Fuck me, it’s actually him.

            Harry lifts a hand with a sheepish smile. He’s in jeans and a black tee, only he’s wearing a red hoodie and white trainers. Has he—he’s gotten a haircut. Back and sides shaved down, so the wildness on top looks artful instead of feral.

            What do I—what do I do?

            _Well, don’t stand there with your mouth hanging open, you damn fool_.

            Mouth closed. Moving. Yes. One foot in front of the other. I’m not the one who has to explain anything. He’s the one who needs to explain. I demand explanations.

            I stop a few feet from him, looking down at him. He gazes back, chewing on the inside of his mouth.

            Then he gestures to the hoops. “Do you play?”

            I say, “You’re actually here.”

            Harry clears his throat, and nods. “I am.”

            “In America.”

            “Yes. First time, actually. I have to say—not too fond of the heat. I rather like everything else.”

            My arms are holding me tight. I have the impression that if I let go I would start gesticulating wildly with my hands to try and convey my sheer befuddlement. “What—are you doing here?”

            He swallows, and presses his lips together, and says, “I—don’t actually know.”

            I lower my head, turning an ear towards him. “You don’t know.”

            “Not exactly.”

            “You have a map that you followed to a precise location. A location where I am. And you don’t know why you’re here.”

            “Not exactly?” Harry repeats weakly.

            Blunt, I ask, “Have you been confounded?”

            He closes his eyes a moment in frustration, but it doesn’t appear to be with me. “No, I—“ He peers past me, a bit hopeful. “Are those your boys?”

            I look over my shoulder. Every single one of the boys is at the window, watching. Irritated, I snap my fingers at them, and they scatter.

            When I turn back to Harry, he’s trying to push down an amused smile. “What?” I ask.

            “Nothing, just—shades of Severus Snape.”

            I look him over. This is different than in dreams. Being in front of him like this—he’s so much more real. I can see the little flecks on his face, I can smell him—he smells like—what is that, pine? Yew? Good lord, I think it’s yew. Not overpowering, like yew often is, but—what am I even thinking? What’s happening right now?

            I can reach out and touch him, if I want. He is a tangible, living, breathing person.

            “How did you find me?” I ask.

            Harry seems glad for a question that he can actually answer. “Neville, actually. You mentioned him, the first time, so I knew you’d seen him, and I remembered that he’d been to America. So I asked him, and he said that you worked in Bronx—“

            “The Bronx,” I say absently.

            “Yes. The Bronx. So I tried to look you up online, but I think you’ve done a pretty good job of erasing yourself from the internet, only I found an old article that mentioned you—or Draco Malloy, I suppose. It said you worked in the south part of the area, and then I just sort of did some looking at community centers, like you said you worked at, and I’ve been checking them off my list.” He grimaces. “I may have done some other asking. In case you—“ He coughs. “Hear about that.”

            “What manner of asking?”

            “I, ah—well, when I read that there were a million and a half people, I tried asking your mother, to see if I could narrow it down.”

            It’s a good thing my eyes can’t simply pop out of my head. “My _mother_?”

            “That was yesterday, so she wasn’t able to get the message to you yet, I suppose. And then I just—well, I just started asking people as I went along.” He gestures behind himself.

            I raise my head, looking around at the neighbourhood. “Let me—be perfectly clear on this. You’ve been wandering the South Bronx, asking people if they know Draco Malloy? Despite the fact that, yes, this borough has 1.5 million residents?”

            “Burrow?” Harry says.

            “Borough,” I enunciate, “and don’t dodge the question.”

            Rubbing the back of his neck, Harry says, “I might have.”

            “Again, I want to be crystal clear. You remembered a context clue from a conversation that we had three months ago, grilled your friend on a conversation he had five years ago, contacted my mother, travelled across the Atlantic Ocean, purchased yourself a map, and you’ve been asking absolute strangers if they know me.”

            Harry nods, dark in the cheeks. “That would be accurate, yeah.”

            Flummoxed, I say, “I’m—startled, but I don’t know why I should be. That’s basically the most Harry Potter way to approach a problem.”

            “I mean—“ He raises his shoulders. “I found Horcruxes, Draco. Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?”

            Tilting my head, I say, “Draco, is it?”

            Harry pauses. “If that’s all right. If you’d prefer, I can stick with Malfoy.”

            “Not on American soil you won’t. Malfoy’s not my name here.”

            “So I’ll stick with Draco.”

            “Harry?”

            He can see what I’m going to say, and braces himself. “Yeah?”

            “What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” I point back at the center. “I give my boys to the count of five to give me an answer, and ‘I don’t know’ is rarely an acceptable one. So let’s have another go, shall we? Why are you here?”

            He opens his mouth to speak, but then sniffs a few times. “You were right. You smell like coconut.”

            “Harry.”

            He runs a hand over his hair, only from one side to the other, like he’s trying to smooth it into place. “I, ah—we sort of left things on uncertain terms.”

            “You broke the spell. You did what you’ve said you wanted to for months. You were rid of me.”

            “Yeah, only—“ Harry clears his throat. “I didn’t like how we left things.” I narrow my eyes at him. I am trying to understand this infuriating man, but he never makes it easy. How we left things? Not two weeks ago he was screaming at me that I was evil and would never change. He can’t be here because he’s _worried_ about me. “You were upset.”

            Is he actually here because he’s worried about me? “I don’t understand.”

            Harry draws himself up, muttering, “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Listen, I’ve behaved pretty terribly over the last few months, and once I finally got it through my head, I wasn’t able to say it, was I? Not only that, but you were—you’d just lost someone, and you were—I just wanted to make sure….”

            He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

            I’m left staring at him in disbelief. “You’re here because you’re concerned about me.”

            Sticking his hands in his pockets, Harry nods once. “Suppose I am. Now that I have to stand still and think about it.”

            Speak, Draco! You can’t just stand here staring at him! “I’m fine,” I say levelly.

            Harry says, “Oh, good. I guess I’m back to England, then.”

            I laugh—briefly—before finally dropping my arms. “You’re _mad_.”

            He shrugs, chagrined. “Possibly.”

            “Did you honestly not think any further than, ‘I ought to get to New York, make sure Draco’s not done a harm to himself’?”

            “I really didn’t,” Harry confesses.      

            “Again, I’m surprised, and yet—not.” The boys. Fuck, my boys are all waiting on me. “I need to—“ I half turn towards the center.

            Harry steps back. “Yeah, too right.”

            “How long are you—you don’t know how long you’re here for, do you.”

            “Not exactly. I’ll probably go home tomorrow evening. I have to be home Thursday, but—New York. I should probably have a look about.”

            “Where are you staying?”

            “Ah….”

            I scratch both sides of my head, fingers feeling the scar he put there. I know what I have to do—it’s the only adult thing to do—but some primal piece of me is saying, _fuck him, leave him be and count your blessings._ That’s the old voice, though. The voice that I have to beat into submission, and punish myself for letting out in the first place.

            I wrap my arms around myself again, nodding to the benches at the side of the court. “Go sit. I have to be here another hour.”

            “Are—you sure?”

            I roll my eyes. “You’re the first man to cross an ocean for me. Least I can do is find you decent accommodation for the evening.” I turn and walk away. “And for God’s sake, you see anyone else try to enter this building, hex them.” Shaking my head, I mutter, “I think my heart will give out if I have one more unexpected visitor today.”


	25. Chapter 25

This can be done. Whatever—this is. I straighten my shirt before opening the door and setting off across the basketball court.

            The fact that he’s sitting there is a minor shock. His mere presence, I mean. That he’s sitting still, reading his map, is also bizarre. I never expected him to do as he was told.

            When he sees me coming, Harry folds the map down. “All right?” he says, somewhere between hesitant and friendly.

            Coming to stand in front of him, arms crossed, I say, “Certainly. Besides comforting a room of grieving teenage boys and my childhood nemesis popping up at my job, everything is dandy.”

            Abashed, Harry looks toward the center. “How are they?”

            I don’t say something snide, because I can hear from his voice that he knows exactly how they’re doing. After all—when he was their age—

            “About as I expected.” I nod for him to get up. “Come on. We’re going back to Williamsburg.”

            He hops to his feet, easily keeping up at my side. “Where’s Williamsburg?”

            “Brooklyn. Where I live.”

            “You live in Brooklyn?” He turns his map over. “Why do you live so far from—“

            “I apparate. It really doesn’t matter where I live.” Harry pulls a face, and I say, “You know, you’re thirty years old. Eventually you’ll have to cure yourself of this ridiculous aversion to apparition.”

            “I don’t have to do any such thing.”

            Leading him to the smoker’s refuge, I ask, “Where did you get the map?”

            “Floo station. I exchanged my galleons for some of these—“ He pulls out a wad of bills. At least five thousand dollars.

            I immediately push his hand down. “For fuck’s sake, put that away before someone sees.” I’ve touched him. I snatch my hand back, hoping it’s not obvious.

            Harry stuffs the bills back into his hoodie pocket. Does he not have a wallet? “Did I do it wrong? Did I get the wrong kind?”

            “No, those are American dollars, but you don’t want to be waving a wad of cash around where anyone can see.”

            “Ah. Right. Sorry, I think I might still be a bit muddled from the trip.”

            Barking, I say, “I can imagine. How long is the Floo across the Atlantic? An hour, last I checked?”

            Darkly, Harry mutters, “More like a fucking eternity, if you ask me. They give you an Empty-Out potion before getting on, so you don’t make an utter mess of yourself. I almost thought of taking the airplane back, but after the description you gave, I’m not so sure.”

            “An hour of spinning in circles, or fifteen of turbulence. I honestly can’t help you with that choice.” I peek around the corner. None of the boys or staff are sneaking a cigarette. “Come on.”

            Harry does what I say, obedient, and I don’t know what to do about that.

            Then I pause.

            “What?”

            Better to be honest. “I haven’t side alonged anyone in—approximately twelve years.”

            He stares at me. We can take the train. It will be a bit of a slog, but—

            “Okay,” Harry says, stepping up.

            What is going on with him? First he shows up out of nowhere, and now he trusts me to get us all the way to Brooklyn without splinching him? All right, you know what—I don’t care. Life is too short to ponder the many mysteries that are Harry Potter.

            I hold up my arm, elbow rigid, like I was taught. Harry steps closer, reaching up and pulling my arm down a few inches, before pinning it close to his body.

            God, I can just imagine it: _Former Death Eater Kills The Boy Who Lived In Apparition Blunder_.

            Fuck it. Williamsburg.

 

We come out in the little shed at the top of my building, where there’s access to the roof. I let him go straight away, stepping back to quickly sweep him over with my eyes, searching for blood.

            He’s fine. My heart can slow down now, thanks.

            “There,” I say. “I don’t know what you were so worried about.” I head down the stairs, not concerning myself about whether he’ll follow or not.

            He’s in my building. That might not have been well advised, but I needed a place that I’m as comfortable apparating to as I would be in my sleep. Home it was.

            I won’t let him into the apartment though.

            _Why not?_

Because it would be bizarre. Even more so than what’s come before.

            _So you’re just going to leave him standing in the hall_.

            You’re damned right I am. I didn’t ask for him to be here.

            From the steps behind me, I can tell that he’s following. What am I supposed to do with him? Entertain him for the evening? I’m not in the mood to entertain anyone. I’m not in a mood to be upright.

            Though it might be good to have my mind off things.

            I come out on my floor, and almost run into four feet of dark hair and green eyes. “Dustin,” I say. “Jesus.”

            He stares up at me. “I heard the cracking thing. I heard the cracking thing and wondered if you were—“ He looks past me, and silences.

            I glance back. Harry’s peering at him in curiosity. “It’s all right,” I say. “He’s like us.”

            Dustin frowns, like he doesn’t believe me. He beckons me downwards. I lean over, and he whispers, “But—he looks normal.”

            I hear Harry snort, and catch the implication. I don’t look normal. Well, that’s fine. I don’t want to look like everyone else as it is. “He’s terribly ashamed of who he is,” I tell Dustin with a straight face. “He dresses like normal people because he’s embarrassed. Don’t ever be like that.”

            The boy nods solemnly, then says, “I really like the book. Thank you.”

            “Good, I’m glad. We have to be going. Are you doing all right, though? Hasn’t sounded like you’re trying to knock down my walls lately.”

            “No broken glasses this week,” he says, then gives me the tiniest of smiles.

            “Good man. We’ve got to be going. Bye for now.”

            He gives Harry a wide berth as we pass. I take out my keys, glancing back. Dustin’s staring, same as usual. Well shit. I suppose I can’t just leave Harry out in the hall. With a sigh, I unlock the door, and let him in first.

            He steps inside, and I follow him in, locking the door behind us. Harry gazes around the place, and I try to see it through his eyes as I unlace my shoes. It’s a world removed from the Malfoy grandeur. White walls, a little dim because it’s east facing. None of my furniture matches. I’ve bookshelves filled with books and DVDs. There are no dishes in the sink, but some in the drying rack. Paintings my friends have made hang on my walls, brightening the place up. Framed photos sit on most of the available surfaces, and when they’re not framed they’ve been stuck to the wall.

            I don’t wait for a reaction. Pointing to the couch, I say, “Have a seat. I’ll only be a moment.” I toss my wand on the counter.

            As I pass, Harry says, “It’s like an ice box in here.”

            “Weren’t you just complaining that it was too warm?” I mutter.

            Once I’m in my room, I close the door behind myself.

            Harry Potter. Is in my living room. What the actual fuck.

            I need to do something. But what?

            And why the hell would he cross the ocean to check on me?

            One thing at a time.

            I strip out of my capris, throwing them at the hamper, then slip into my washed out skinny jeans. Shedding my cardigan, I pull on my denim vest, the one with my pro-choice and queer rights and band pins across the chest.

            No, too much.

            I throw off the vest, and the tank top, and get into my black Wolf Parade shirt, the one with the unfinished collar that rolls down and shows my bones.

            That’ll have to do. I’m not changing again.

            I duck down in front of the mirror, fussing my hair a little. It’s curly today with the humidity. Outright curly, not just wavy. Getting long. I should get it cut.

            _What are you worried about?! It’s only Harry Potter_.

            Scowling, I leave it be and head back into the living room.

            This time, he’s migrated. He’s standing by the counter. When he hears something, he turns and holds up my wand. “You just leave this laying about?” Harry says accusingly.

            I roll my eyes. “Haven’t you heard it’s rude to handle a man’s wand without buying him dinner first?” I step into my tall boots, crouching down to tie them. Putting my hand out, I think _accio_ and the wand sails into my grasp. I place the wand into my right boot, and begin lacing it up.

            “You—put your wand in your _boot_?”

            “Where do you put yours?”

            Harry pulls his out of his back pocket. “There, like a sane person.”

            “Teseli would kill you where you stood. Budding wandmaker leaving his wand in his pocket.”

            “Teseli?” I look up, and I’ve no idea why Harry’s gazing at me wide eyed. “Teseli, granddaughter of Tessa Lefebvre, the wandmaker?”

            “You’ve heard of her then.”

            Lowering his head, Harry says, “The infamous dark witch who spent ten years in Raczalock. That Teseli?”

            “Did she?” I say. “Huh. I never knew that about her.”

            “She murdered five people.”

            “And only did ten years?”

            “She was fifteen.”

            I snort, standing up. “Knew there was a reason she reminded me of my mother.” I stick my hands in my back pockets. “How do you know that about her? People here—they don’t know much about her at all.”

            “From a book. Get that look off your face, I read plenty on my own. It was a wandmaker’s autobiography. He mentioned her a few times. Said she hadn’t been heard from again.”

            “How old was that book?”

            “Oh, twenty years at least.”

            I nod for him to get going, and I lock the door after us. “I don’t go to Samatchin much—well, you must have seen it coming off the Floo, it’s fucking ridiculous—but from the times we’ve spoken, I gather she’s been there about two decades. There are two other wandmakers in New York, but they only see business from people who are too afraid to go near her, or who can’t afford the wands.”

            “And no one knows?”

            I shrug, guiding him down the stairs. “It’s New York. Everyone who wasn’t born here is here for a chance to start over. You start throwing stones, you’ll find them being cast back at you fairly fast.” I gesture to my forehead. “She has a scar, here, that people gossip about, but there are so many stories about her that the truth probably just got buried beneath the rumors. As it is wont to do.”

            His stomach suddenly growls, quite insistent. I glance back at him, and Harry shrugs. “Don’t suppose there’s anywhere decent to eat around here.”

            Hometown pride kicks in, and I mutter, “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

 

Harry looks at the menu over the counter, and says in a low voice, “I don’t know what the majority of these items are, and I’ve eaten lake giraffe.”

            Rubbing my brow, I just shake my head. “You really do need to step beyond the confines of Chiltern. And—the world you’ve stuck yourself in.”

            He glances about, amused. We’re two back in the queue, with eight more behind us. “Is that how you refer to it? When you’re around muggles?” I give him a dirty look, which just makes him laugh. “They’ve no idea what I’m saying. It could be just some English thing I’m spouting.”

            “I don’t ever refer to it in public, because I don’t ever have reason to discuss it in public.”

            We’re one closer to the counter. “In all the years you’ve been here, how many times have you been out in ‘public’ with a—“ He glances around. “Non-muggle?”

            “I haven’t.”

            “Get on with you.”

            “I’m entirely serious. The closest I’ve come is—“ I take a surreptitious look around. “There was this scandal, in the MACUSA, a few years back. Someone got hold of the registry records and started throwing them around to anyone who wanted to look. There’s always someone wanting to repeal the 2nd here.”

            “The 2nd?”

            We reach the counter, and Mrs. Abatescianni smiles at the sight of me. “Draco! Where you been?”

            “Work,” I say, tossing up my hands.

            “Always with you—work.”

            “I don’t think you’re in a position to throw stones. Is there a single day of the week that you’re not behind that counter?”

            “I find someone who does good a job like me, I let them be behind the counter. I don’t find someone who does good a job like me. So I am behind the counter.”

            “I can’t argue that.”

            “Your usual, caro?”

            “Yes, bella.”

            She waves a hand at me. “And your friend. What he want?”

            Harry’s still looking at the menu, lost. “Just give him the margherita,” I say. “Anything more and I think the shock would kill him.” I lean forward, dropping my voice confidentially. “He’s only had English pizza.”

            “The English do not have pizza!” Mrs. Abatescianni says authoritatively.

            I pay for the pizza and two Cokes, having to cast Harry a hard gaze when he goes to pull out the wad of cash again. I give him his bottle, and we go to the end of the counter to wait.

            “Why don’t you have a wallet?” I ask under my breath.

            “Why would I?” he returns.

            I shake my head. When our slices come out, mine is a beautiful soppressetta piccante. Harry has an equally attractive, but much more plain, margherita. He looks at it doubtfully, and asks, “That’s it?”

            A minute later, when we’re sitting on the patio, and he takes his first bite, his eyes roll back and he makes a rather ungodly noise. Eyebrows raised, I take a much more measured nibble of my food.

            Once he’s done having a very intense moment with his pizza, Harry takes a breath, and says, “So what’s the 2nd?”

            “It’s the American version of the International Statute of Secrecy.”

            “That’s ridiculous. There’s already an international one.”

            “Yes, but just because Interpol exists doesn’t mean we don’t have federal criminal bureaus.” Harry is looking at me blankly. “Good God, you really are unplugged from the outside world, aren’t you. The English initiated the Statute in 1688. Mary and William and all that. America is its own country. When we gained independence, we made our own laws regarding magic. The 2nd Amendment is our version of the Statute.”

            “2nd Amendment?” Harry says rather loudly, and I see some heads turn.

            “Keep your voice down,” I hiss. “The 2nd Amendment means something rather different to regulars.”

            Grimacing, he leans forward, lowering his voice. “And what’s that?”

            “The right to bear arms. It’s not exactly a popular notion in Williamsburg. Anyways. How did we get around to the 2nd?”

            “Something about a registry being leaked?”

            “Right, right. So all of a sudden, I had various organizations showing up on my doorstep, asking me to sign petitions and go to marches, join whatever cause they were peddling. Making a fucking nuisance of themselves. Trying to make me out myself in some vain effort to overwhelm the 2nd.”

            “Not a popular notion here?”

            “No. About as popular as it is in England. You get some radical who comes along every few years, thinks by being stealth that we’re admitting regulars are superior to us. That never gets very far. There are still a few people living who remember what happened when Grindelwald came through here. Vast majority want everyone to stay stealth from fear of what would happen to us.”

            “Fear,” Harry says, surprised.

            “I know. In England, there’s that attitude of superiority about regulars. ‘Muggles are so precious, they must be defended against our overwhelming power.’ Here, we’ve seen what people do to minorities. Christ, look at this country in the last ten years. None of us want to end up in some magical version of Guantanamo.”  

            “And what do you think? Are you afraid?”

            “Of regulars?” I laugh. “No. Not as—certainly not as a freak. Anyone came for me, I’d take quite decent care of myself. Freaks, who live apart from regulars, they always have this notion of how different we are. How the lines need to be so defined, how we have to be kept apart. Those of us who live with regulars—I honestly don’t see how anyone could go back to a world that small, after seeing what’s really out there.”

            Harry gazes at me with a furrowed brow. “It’s strange. To hear you call us that. Freaks.”

            “We are.”

            “We just have different abilities.”

            “And so we’re freaks. People will lie to children, tell them that freak is just another word for different. I say different is another word for freak. Better to accept that instead of denying the truth. Otherwise you end up living in fear. I’ve no use for that.”

            I have a bite of my pizza, as Harry looks around. He picks up his bottle, which is frosty and perfect, and lets out a chuckle. “I never thought I’d see the day you’d be eating Muggle food.”

            “Well, once I discovered how much better it was, there was no going back.”

            Shaking his head, Harry says, “Traitor.”

            I lift my shoulders. “Pumpkin juice tastes like foot fungus, treacle tart is legitimately one of the most disgusting foods ever created, and the chocolate in Chocolate Frogs is—“

            “Don’t you dare—“

            “Subpar, at _best_.”

            He puts a hand over his heart. “That really hurts. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

            I snort. “No thank you.”

            “This is a beautiful place, by the way.”

            Surprised, I glance around. There are people all about, most of them happy looking. Old brick buildings, plenty of new shops. The trees are still green, and the day is beginning to cool slightly. “Suppose so.”

            “I was a little—worried, when I saw Samatchin.”

            Shaking my head, I say, “Don’t get me fucking started about Samatchin.”

            “I don’t mind.”

            He wouldn’t. I can see it in his eyes.  

            I lift my slice. “I want to eat this before it gets cold.” I start nibbling at it, avoiding his eyes.

 

“Why here?”

            We’re walking down the street. I have half a bottle of Coke in my hand. Harry guzzled his fairly quickly. I’m still in this strange place of caution, waiting for things to go awry.

            “Do you mean New York, Brooklyn, or Williamsburg?”

            “All three, I suppose.”

            We stop briefly at a light, and I say, “Margritte had a large hand in it. She asked what I wanted to do once my house arrest was over, and I said New York. I’d seen it in videos so many times, and read so much about it. Always this place of second chances. Or broken dreams. I’d already had the latter, so I figured I could handle it if things didn’t work out quite as I intended. Once I told her that, it was pretty much set in motion. She had a cousin who immigrated here after the war, who owned a few buildings. She set me up with my apartment, and I’ve stayed there ever since. Even after he died, and the place was sold off. It’s rent controlled as well. The man who’s running it now—fucking unscrupulous. Last winter, the heater was broken, and he wouldn’t fix it. Washer and dryer break down, he won’t fix it. He wants us out so that he can renovate the place, make it into million dollar lofts or something for the hipsters. I’ll be damned if I go without a fight.”

            “So what did you do about the heater?”

            “Oh, it was a flick of the wrist. Any time something breaks, I just give it a poke and it comes back to life. You know, he once even broke his key off in the door of the laundry room so people couldn’t get in. Childish.” He’s smiling. “Why are you smiling?”

            “I’m just thinking about your neighbours, who’ve no idea that you’re going about performing these random acts of kindness.”

            “I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it to spite _him_.”

            Harry laughs, and he does it so easily. I don’t understand how he’s so relaxed when—well, everything that’s happening right now. “My guess is it might be a combination of the two.”

            “You are being very nice, and it’s making me exceedingly nervous.”

            I expect him to say that he’s glad, that he’s pleased to get under my skin. Instead, Harry looks grim for a moment. “Yeah. About that.”

            “God, you look serious. Forget I asked.”

            “Shut up, would you? I—last few months—I’ve been a bit of a tit, haven’t I.”

            Crowing, I return, “A _bit_?”

            “Okay, a lot. Satisfied?”

            “Well, yes, but still very, very confused.”

            Harry stuffs his hands in his pockets, walking with slightly hunched shoulders. He inhales deeply. “I’ve been thinking.” He checks to see if I’m about to say something smart, but I keep my mouth shut. “Truth of it is, you’ve been—almost infuriatingly patient the last few months. No, not almost. It has been infuriating. You took just about everything I threw at you, and I can’t imagine that was easy. I was a proper idiot. No excusing it. You handled the whole thing like an adult, and I was—“ Harry shakes his head in disbelief. “It was like I was fifteen again. Of all the things I don’t need to be, fifteen again is one of them. I was an awful person at fifteen. Something about you has just always brought out the worst in me.” I’m not sure I want to hear what he’s going to say next. His face looks impossibly somber. “I’m sorry about that.”

            I actually trip, and he’s still got the reflexes of a Seeker. He grabs me by the elbow, preventing me from falling on my face. Once I’m steady on my feet again, trying not to blush, he pulls his hand away. He, however, is quite flushed.

            “All right?” he asks.

            “You just apologized to me for something.”

            “Yes.”

            “Harry Potter just apologized to me.”

            “Yes.”

            Tossing up my hands, I say, “What the hell am I to do? There were no witnesses—no one will ever believe me—“ I dodge out in front of a couple walking by us. “Excuse me—this man just apologized to me. I need someone to verify that I’ve not lost my mind—“

            Harry snatches me away from them. “Sorry, he’s a bit dramatic.” They scurry away, and Harry grimaces in exasperation. “What about low profile?”

            “The famous Harry Potter just apologized to me. Nothing will ever be the same.”

            “I’m going to start regretting it if you don’t behave.”

            “Good. You being level headed is frightening.”

            “I was…really that terrible, wasn’t I.”

            I glance at him. Now I feel a bit bad. He seems to have taken it to heart. “You had your decent moments.”

            “Ask you something?”

            “Why not.”

            “You were…a little more…friendly. In the dreams.”

            “Well, I had to convince you to empathize with me. So I was on my best behaviour. That and—admittedly, I’ve had a difficult week.” I kick at a pebble. “Sorry. I’m not the best of company at the moment. Though God knows you must have known that would be the case when you came over here.” For want of anything else, I push my bottle into his hand. “Here, have some of that.”

            “This is pure sugar,” Harry says, but it doesn’t stop him from taking a sip. We come to an intersection, facing the sun lowering in the sky. Everything glowing, warm. I look at Harry and crack up. “What?”

            I put up my hands, framing his face through them. “Ethnically ambiguous man having a fizzy drink at sunset. You look like a Coke commercial.”

            He looks down at the bottle, then starts to laugh. He hands it back to me. “Can’t have that.”

            The bottle’s still cool. I set it against my neck, and have a look about. “So? Where do you want to go?”

            When I turn back, he’s gazing at me. Why’s he doing that? But he blinks, smiling a little. “I don’t know. Not like I really had a plan.” He puts up a hand. “Yes, the title of my next autobiography.”

            “Are you tired? Do you need to find a hotel?”

            “Oddly enough—“ Harry shrugs. “I’m not tired at all.”

            I think about it. “Ice cream. Then the park.”

            He perks up. “Central Park, right?”

            I roll my eyes. “We’ve more than one park in New York City, Harry. Come along.”

            “Come along,” he mutters, but he crosses the street with me.

 

I look doubtfully at Harry’s ice cream cone. It is a very pale shade of purple.

            “What?” he says defensively.

            “A cornucopia of interesting flavours to try, and you choose something you could get on Diagon Alley any day of the week.”

            “I can’t get ice cream on the alley anymore.”

            “How do you mean?”

            Darkly, Harry says, “The ice cream incident of ’04. I went into Florean Fortescue’s, ordered this new banana flavour they were trying. Paper got a photo and ran a piece about what the famous Harry Potter was eating, and there was a run on Fortescue’s. Ran through all the bananas, and when something runs out, people always want it. So they ordered a ridiculous amount of bananas. Too many. Fads don’t last. They were left with a mountain of bananas in their backroom. I went in a few months later, and you could see the absolute dread in their eyes. ‘Oh Merlin, if only we could ask him to leave. We can’t, though, we’d be out of business. We’ll be out of business if he shops here. What do we do?’ I said I remembered that I was supposed to meet someone for lunch, couldn’t ruin my appetite. Haven’t been back since.”

            “That’s unfortunate. I’m sorry.”

            “It’s only ice cream.”

            “No, I mean the larger aspect. How limited your life is there.”

            “I do all right,” Harry murmurs.

            “Is Chiltern a happy place to live?”

            We walk a few feet, his face screwed up. “Didn’t you already ask me that once?”

            “Several times. But you refused to answer the question.”

            “I did not.”

            “Evasion is refusing to answer a question, Harry.”

            He takes a deep breath. “Chiltern is—safe.” He rolls his eyes. “Shit, I just did it again. Is Chiltern happy. In some ways—yes. I like the quiet some days. I like that I can leave my house and not worry about someone jumping out and taking my picture. You should see the wards on my place. For fucking miles. Sometimes, though—yeah, I wish I was elsewhere. It’s good enough for now.”

            “Have you ever thought of leaving?”

            “Chiltern?”

            “Yes, just hopping over to the next county. You’re positively thick, you know that? England.”

            He glances at me in consternation, but admits, “The thought has crossed my mind from time to time. England is home, though. It’s where my family is.”

            “You feel terribly close to your family, where you’re living now?”

            “Don’t be a prick.”

            “Can’t help it. It’s in my blood.”

            He lets out one soft chuckle, then says, “Can I try yours?”

            “You’re regretting your choice, aren’t you.”

            “No, I just want to know what it is you have.”

            I pass it to him, and he hands his cone to me. Sharing ice cream cones with Harry Potter. Right. Of course I am. I have a lick at his lavender cone. It’s disgusting—I don’t care for lavender—but I don’t want it to drip onto my hand.

            He makes that ungodly noise again. “That’s amazing.”

            “You’d think they starve you out there.”

            “I do my own cooking,” Harry says with some regret. “It leaves plenty to be desired. What is this?”

            “Vietnamese coffee with roasted almonds.” I look at him. This peculiar man, who can’t even order an ice cream cone, all because he saved the world. “Go on. You can have it.”

            “Oh, I wouldn’t want to—“

            Shrugging, I say, “It’s fine. I’m rather fond of lavender, to tell the truth.”

            He smiles—an open, sweet thing that I don’t recognize on his face. I have to look away from it. That smile gives him an unfair advantage.

           

It takes stunningly little prodding to get him going about quidditch. I really just want to keep him talking, with no expectation of my contributing, so I can have a few minutes to think.

            What is happening?

            Harry Potter, childhood bane of my existence and haunter of my adult dreams, is walking beside me. He dropped everything and ran across the ocean because I was upset and grieving. Why would he do that? After two thirds of his life spent hating me, why would he do such a thing?

            Does he even know? I don’t believe that he does. Sometimes I doubt that he thinks that far ahead. He simply lets instinct guide him, instead of using his head. That’s terrifying. Just the notion makes me want to break out in hives. I spent so long not thinking for myself that I know it’s a privilege, and to not bother considering the consequences of one’s actions—how can a man live like that?

            However, I have to admit—insane as it might sound—I think I’m glad that he’s here. Just having him beside me, talking about sports of all things, just this inconsequential drivel, it’s rather soothing. I’ve spent so long talking to him about serious things that I know I could, and I assume we will, but there’s also this. Nattering. Normal conversation, without acting as if the world is coming to an end. I need that now, I think.

            _So it’s a good thing he doesn’t think ahead_.

            Yes. I suppose it is.

 

“Blimey,” Harry says, and I break up. He shoots me a dirty look. “What?”

            “That might be the most English thing I’ve heard in years. Next you might ask me for crumpets.”

            I climb onto the rocks, maintaining my balance as I look for a good seat. Harry follows, muttering, “Crumpets.”

            I apparated him, despite his demurrals, to the Brooklyn Bridge Park. He forgot to complain about the apparating once he saw the view, which prompted that burst of Englishness. I sit down on a smooth rock, taking a look at Manhattan laid out before us as night comes on. Soon everything will be all glittering with lights. They’re starting to come on.

            Warm still. I pull my legs up under myself as Harry takes a rock beside me, sprawling out. The water laps a few feet away from us. It’s quite nice.

            “I’d imagine there’s more to look at here than Chiltern,” I remark.

            Harry snorts. “You could say that.” He gestures with his chin across the river. “Do you know what all those buildings are?”

            “Some. It’s like a different city, really. I never have much reason to go to Manhattan.” I remember. I remember, and it seems shameful that I forgot for a single moment. “Evan knew all the names of the buildings.”

            “Yeah?” Harry says quietly.

            I nod. “Mad for building design. He didn’t have the grades to go to school for it or anything like that—besides, in this city, space limited as it is, not like there’s much room for an architect. But he loved to draw them. Perfectly scaled. Books full of them. He would have known the name of every building you’re looking at right now.”

            Harry nods, eyes tracing the outlines of the skyscrapers. He inhales, and says, “I really bollocksed things up on Saturday, didn’t I.”

            “No,” I reply. “I was just set to go off and you happened to be there.”

            “But you’re right. I’m—self-righteous, and I make judgments about people and I don’t change them—“ He closes his eyes, dropping his head. “And I always make things about me. Fuck. A boy’s dead, and I’m talking about me. Sorry, Draco.”

            Hearing my name on his lips is strange. Not a bad strange. Just—odd. I lean over and say, “Don’t think I expected you to change overnight, did you?”

            He casts me a sideways grin. It lasts only a moment before he sobers again. “I am sorry. About Evan. I know what it’s like to lose people, but I’ve never figured out the right thing to say about it.”

            It’s sweet. For a moment, I realize that he can actually be quite sweet. “Harry—you dropped everything and ran across an ocean. For someone you don’t even like. I don’t think you need to say anything.”

            He grimaces. I don’t know why, I’ve just complimented him and he’s admitted to being self centered, so I don’t see the problem. He chews on his lower lip, then says, “Here’s the thing, though. I do like you.”

            I’m staring. Speak, Draco. “Beg pardon?”

            Harry pulls his legs under himself, tugging on the laces of his trainers. “I, ah—figured out why we were still caught in the dream together. And why it ended.”

            “Are you elaborating on that previous statement or avoiding it?”

            “Fuck off, Malfoy, I’m trying to tell you something.”

            I lift my hands, a little relieved to hear some of the old animosity.

            Harry worries at his lip a touch more before speaking. “See, the thing is—you’re all right.” I snort, and I’m not sure why. He gives me a glance, and I clear my throat. “You are. I mean, in about every way. Your life turned out pretty well. You’ve got a place in the world. You have friends. And you—you’re the kind of person people want to know. Which Merlin knows is not a thing that either of us expected of you, so I have to tell you it came as a bit of a shock. The first while there—longer than it should have—I was convinced it was an act. Had to be an act. You couldn’t have turned out so—normal’s not the word, but…likeable. I guess that’s it.”

            “I’ve got a long list of people in my present life who’d beg to disagree,” I tell him, not comfortable with where this is going.

            “Maybe not likeable in an everyone likes you kind of way, but—you are likeable. I think you are.” With the fading light, it’s difficult to tell, but I think he’s blushing. I certainly am. “Once I realized that you weren’t pretending—I mean, I fought it a while. I’ve got a pretty hard stance on Death Eaters, former or not, which I think is fairly understandable.”

            I think of Gregory Goyle, exploding on Diagon Alley two weeks before Christmas. “It is.”

            “I guess I was embarrassed for being such an enormous tit for weeks on end, so I just kept carrying on like I couldn’t stand you. But something else happened.”

            “And what’s that?”

            Harry spreads his hands, looking like he’s struggling to articulate something. “You sort of—split—in my head.”

            I gaze at him, then say, “That will need a little explanation.”

            Slumping, Harry mutters, “I was afraid you’d say that.” He messes up his hair, then pushes it off to the side. Covering his scar. I smile to myself, recognizing how I do the same thing. “There was you—present you, the you I’d talk to, who’s—likeable, and stop making that damned face at me.”

            “What face is that?”

            He gives a fluttery eye roll that looks halfway between impossible and painful. “That face. So there’s you—and then there was Draco Malfoy.”

            “Harry. I _am_ Draco Malfoy.”

            “Yes,” he says impatiently, “I know that, thank you. But in my head—I couldn’t put the two together. There was the you I knew as a child—who was bloody _horrible_ —and then the person who was in front of me, who I liked talking to. Who seemed like a pretty decent fellow. They were just separate in my head.”

            I nod. I see what he means. “Just be glad you didn’t see the insane Draco Malfoy. I’ve been plenty of people in my lifetime. This is the first one I’ve actually liked.”

            “I second that,” Harry mutters, and I smack his arm. “Ow.” But he laughs.

            “So what about Saturday changed that?”

            “You really want to know?”

            “No, I just ask questions because I don’t want a response—“

            “Can’t believe I ever doubted that you were the same Malfoy,” Harry says, shaking his head. He looks down at the river for a few seconds before speaking again. “It was you crying.”

            That strikes me dumb.

            “Last time I saw you cry—you were sixteen. And I almost killed you.”

            “I almost killed you—“

            “No, don’t—just don’t. I’m not walking around covered in scars that you gave me, am I?” Harry rubs his hands over his shins, looking at the skyline instead of me. I’m glad for that. “That’s the only time I ever saw you cry. Until then, I didn’t know that you could. I spent so many years hating you—hating you, even though we were children. We were children, for Christ’s sake. What were we doing hating anyone? And when I saw you like that…. You know, when everything was done—when the war was done—I had plenty of nights where I didn’t sleep. Where I’d think back, and I would think, what would be different if I had done this or that instead. All the people who would have lived if I had made different choices. I made choices that ended up killing people, and yeah, I was a kid, but life’s not fair, and sometimes that’s the way it happens. I know that, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel that way sometimes. So I’d run it over in my head—and one of the things I’d think about is you, in that bathroom, and what I could have done different. Said something, done something—I should have disarmed you, I should have just fucking disarmed you—“

            “Stop it,” I murmur.

            He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “I can’t help it. I’m not over it. Any of it. I don’t think I ever will be. Maybe that’s why I—and there I go, making things about myself again. We’re talking about you.”

            “We don’t have to. In fact, I’d prefer we didn’t.”

            “Well, tough. That night, that’s the first time—that’s the first time I saw you as a person. When I realized that you weren’t just some one dimensional little bastard who should simply be wiped from the face of the earth. And I know that’s a shit thing to say, that I had to see you could suffer to realize you were real, but it’s the truth, and I’m sorry for that too. It was only for a few seconds—we were trying to kill each other about ten seconds after that—but it happened. And I’d think about that, when I’d go over it in my head. What I could have done different. I’ve had a lot of years to think of what I should have done. And Saturday—it’s the first time I’ve seen you like that in fourteen years. It all sort of clicked. Seeing you like that. Getting it through my thick head that you’re you. You’re Draco Malfoy. There’s not one or the other, there’s just…you.”

            He looks plenty embarrassed, and I feel embarrassed, so I do what I was born to, and hide it all with a drawl. “And your solution was to pet my hair?”

            Harry drops his head. “Fuck, you’re awful.” I laugh softly, and he smiles too.

            I put my hands behind me, leaning back. “Whatever the case, I’m glad it’s over.”

            “Are you?”

            Curious, I look at him. “Aren’t you?”

            “Of course,” Harry says, but for some reason I don’t entirely believe him. He catches my gaze, and frowns. “Suppose…it was nice to have someone to talk to.”

            I can’t help it. I start to laugh. “Are you joking?”

            Looking hurt, Harry says, “Are you having a go at me?”

            “No, I’m just amused. I’ve spent this whole summer talking, and you’ve barely said a thing. I still have no idea why you ended up in Chiltern besides a woman being involved. I know nothing about what you intend to do with your life. You’ve given me pieces here and there while I’ve had to lay myself open for inspection just so I can go back to having torrid dreams without worrying about suddenly being whisked away to face judgment.”

            “I’ve never been very good, talking about myself—“ He points at my face, growling, “I swear, Malfoy, I’ll hex you, you say a word.”

            “You can’t just say something like that and expect me to stay silent.”

            “Just because people want to know about me doesn’t mean I like it.”

            “You certainly didn’t discourage it, the years I knew you.”

            “You’re the one who spent the summer convincing me people could change.”

            “So you concede that you used to court their attention, but that changed about you.”

            “You’re a genuine bastard at times, do you know that?” Harry rolls his eyes. His face sets with determination, and he gazes out at the river. “I’ve never been…good with saying what I really think. Or Merlin forbid, my feelings. Hermione’s been at me to see a mind healer for years, but—I mean, honestly, do you think if I started with that I’d ever be able to stop?”

            “No. Nor I.”

            Harry squares his shoulders. “You want to hear something particular, then. You’ve been telling me things all summer. Only fair I tell you something.”

            “Well, not if it’s going to injure you, which it looks like it might at this particular moment.”

            “You want to know about Chiltern. And—you asked me, one time, about the first man I ever kissed.” He looks at me, guarded. “Do you still want to hear that story?”

            I don’t bother pretending. “I can’t begin to tell you how curious I am about that story.”

            He sighs. “I thought as much.” He zips up his hoodie, then starts fidgeting with his hands, looking at them instead of me. “After I quit the Aurors—after I failed completely at being an Auror, let’s not kid ourselves—I went on that trip across England, like I told you. I decided I’d—backpack.”

            “You…decided to walk around England?”

            “It was fine. I swear, sometimes you forget that magic even exists.”

            “God, if only.”

            “As it stands…I set out from Cape Cornwall. Just what I could carry, on my own. Everyone…thought I was a bit mad. The family, I mean. Didn’t tell anyone else. I’d check in with Ron, and he’d tell me the latest headlines. The papers actually got rather hysterical. Where is Harry Potter? They started posting rewards for a sighting of me. And if you think I like that, you’re off your nut. Molly, she thought I should just go to visit the Delacours for a week or two. Arthur thought I should go to Brighton. He said that was what muggles did when they needed a break. The fellows, they were all good about it. Bill found all his old maps from when he did it. George almost decided to come with me.  Not that he was invited, but I wouldn’t have minded if he had. He would have lasted a week. That’s George for you. Ended up giving me these Dark-See Glasses that came in handy. I thought—after the last four years—it might be nice to just be on my own a while. Not where people could see me. Talk about me. Actually meet people who had no idea who I was. I’d been around England a bit with the Aurors, but there’d never been a chance to really stay. To breathe. I had all these places marked on the maps that I wanted to see. So I figured, start out at the corner of the place and just—go where I pleased. And that’s what I did.

            “I liked it a lot, actually. First time in years that I was properly alone. Truth be told, I don’t know if I’d ever been alone for any kind of stretch before that. I was with the Dursleys, then at Hogwarts, or with the Weasleys, or with Ron and Hermione—then work. I didn’t even live on my own when I was with the Aurors. I stayed in the recruit dormitories through training, and after—“ He hesitates, then admits, “I stayed at the Burrow. In George and Fred’s old room. It was pathetic. I know it, so we don’t need to go into that. Finally, when things all fell apart, I figured it was time to be by myself. And that’s what I did, for weeks.

            “I went right across the south of England, along the coast. I did actually end up in Brighton for a few days. Made sure to send Arthur a lot of pictures, but with a muggle camera. He likes that sort of thing. Worked my way over to Canterbury. Then I followed the coast north, until I got to Ipswich. I’d had a few close calls before that, running into people who’d—“ He narrows his eyes, pointing at an invisible figure. “Are you—? And I’d grown my hair out rather long, so it covered my scar, and I wore contacts, and I’d—you’ll laugh, but I’d do my best Irish accent and say that my name was Rory O’Connell, and I had one of those faces that look like someone else’s.”

            “I’m afraid to ask about your best Irish accent.”

            “You should be. I did it for Seamus once and he almost herniated himself, the bugger. But in Ipswich, well—I was having one of those conversations, and all of a sudden the breeze comes off the sea, and up goes my hair, and this woman sees my scar and her eyes near bulge out of her head. I panicked. Said, ‘Excuse me,’ and apparated on the spot. Of course, I didn’t know the area that well, so I ended up halfway down the road I’d just walked down, feeling a proper fool. Knowing that any second Ipswich was going to be set upon by reporters. They’d follow my path back along the coast, figure out what I was doing. So instead, I headed west. Avoided London like the plague—“

            “That’s a misnomer. London was hit plenty of times by the plague.”

            “Yes, you’re so clever with all your muggle history, now will you be quiet and let me tell my story?”

            “Sure. I know how you dislike making things about you.”

            “Damn it.”

            “I’m _kidding_.”

            “Anyways…I came down into the northern part of the Chiltern Hills. Beautiful place. I mean, once I was able to get out and appreciate it, I realized that England really is a beautiful place to live. I came into this little village. No more than a hundred people. Tristan’s Cross, they called it. Never figured out why. No idea who Tristan was. I go into the pub to get some food, and there’s this woman behind the counter, and—“ Harry sighs fondly at the memory. “I couldn’t stop looking at her. She laughed at me for it, but honestly—she’d this long blond hair down to her waist, and she’d put a lot of it up in braids, and blue eyes, and curves—unbelievable. She looked like something out of a dream. I felt like a man who’d been lost at sea for weeks who’d just sighted land. But she was clever too, and wicked. Put me in my place for staring. Said I looked like a wandering minstrel, only I’d been wandering since the crusades, and she doubted I’d ever learned to sing. She was funny like that. Always saying strange things like that. Aeronwy. That was her name. Like something out of a fairy tale.

            “I stayed all the way until they closed, just chatting at her—trying to talk to her, and not just stare at her. She was out of my league. Out of everyone’s league, to be honest. She had come home to see to her brother while he was ill. He had cancer. He was recovering, and it looked like he’d be fine, but she didn’t want to go back to Oxford just yet. Said she was waiting out the year, then she’d go back at the end of summer, when the term began again. It was March, at this point. I told her what I was doing—walking about—and she thought I was insane. Doing that in the middle of winter. Told her it was just a bit of rain. She said if it was just a bit of rain, how come I looked like I hadn’t showered in weeks? Too right, actually. On my own, I sort of—forgot about some things. So I set up my tent, had myself a good shower, and next day I showed up at the pub again, only looking like a human being that time instead of a transient. I had no idea what I was doing. I usually don’t. Everyone knows that. I just thought—she’s nice. She’s more than nice, she’s amazing. Another night. I’ll stay another night.

            “Only another night turned into three nights, and three nights became a week, and a week became two. Aeronwy finally asked me if I was really that intent on sleeping with her. Well, what she actually said was, ‘Are you that determined to see me in my undergarments?’ I’d certainly thought about it, but—like I told her, I just loved talking to her. She wasn’t like anyone I’d met. Gorgeous, yeah, but—peculiar and forward and reserved all at the same time. And everyone loved her. Just _loved_ her. People talked to her and they’d walk away happier. Some people have that gift, and she had it in spades. I said it had been a long time since I’d been happy. And talking to her made me happy. So I’d just keep hanging around until she told me to piss off. Well, she hit me with a tea towel, but she smiled. And that night, when they were closing up, and I was getting up to go, she said, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ I was going back to my tent, same as always. She said, ‘Aren’t you going to be a gentleman and walk me home?’ She lived above the pub. Me, I’m thick as bricks, I actually said that. ‘Don’t you live upstairs?’ It’s an act of God she didn’t just say, ‘All right, good night, Harry.’ Instead, she looked me dead on and said, ‘Harry. Come upstairs and we will be naked together. Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?’”

            I smirk. “I rather like the sound of her.”

            “Yeah. I think you two would have gotten on. The you that you are now, I mean. Anyways—so I went upstairs and—well, that bit’s private.”

            “Thank God. I mean—I already have zero interest in hetero sex, but when you’re involved it just dives into the negatives.”

            “I’m not that bad,” Harry protests.

            I arch a brow. “Are you not?” I tease.

            He realizes what he’s walked into, and quickly turns his eyes back across the water. “Anyways!” he says, and I chuckle. “So—that happened, and it was—I mean….” He whistles. “It’s not like I was a virgin or anything, but that was the first time that—I mean, it might have helped that she was a couple years older than me. She knew things—“

            “I thought you _weren’t_ going to tell me about that part.”

            “I’m not telling you about it, I’m being general.”

            “Then just say, ‘The earth moved,’ and get on with your story. I thought there was a man involved. Or are you trying to trick me?”

            “No. No, that’s—so. Next morning, I wake up. She’s still asleep. I wasn’t going to do a bunk or anything. Thought I’d go to the kitchen, make some tea. So that’s what I did. Made the tea, and I was walking back to the bedroom with two cups, and I almost burned myself when this voice comes out of nowhere, and he says, ‘So you’re the one made my sister hoot like an owl last night.’ I’d completely forgot she lived with her brother. He was sitting in the front room, looking at me like I was trespassing. He looked like her. A lot like her, actually, but—brittle. He was still so skinny after all the chemo. His hair had just come back, about an inch or so. And he’s just staring at me, like what the fuck am I doing in their house. Dafydd. That was Dafydd.”

            Harry doesn’t say anything a moment. He worries his thumbnail between his front teeth.

            “Have you told anyone this story before?” I ask.

            “Not really. Pieces. And only about Aeronwy. The rest…I’ve always kept that bit to myself.” He smiles crookedly, glancing at me. “But who will you tell?”

            “ _The Prophet_ ,” I reply, wrapping my arms around my knees. “I’ll sell the story and buy myself an island.”

            “What would you do with an island?”

            “I’d eat coconuts and tan. Isn’t that what people do on island?”

            “England’s an island.”

            “Well, so’s everything, if you want to be specific.”

            He grins, and that seems to lift some of the solemnness that’s settled over him. “After that, I just…stayed. I went to go back to my tent the next night, and it was raining fit to drown the world, and she said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, come up where it’s warm.’ I mean—I would have been fine in my tent, but once I’d realized she wanted me back, I wasn’t going to fuck up a good thing. So I went up, and Dafydd was in his chair—he had this big chair he’d always be sitting in, and I just got that look again, like I was intruding. The pub, he’d been running it, until he got sick. He was twenty six then, a year older than Aeronwy. Cranky bastard. Bad enough that he’d gotten sick, but he was awfully proud. Hated that Aeronwy had come home to take care of him, that she was running the pub. Jealous of her too. She had that thing. Everyone loved her. Dafydd was a difficult man to like, let alone love. But Aeronwy did. Thought he hung the moon. I helped her make dinner, and we sat down all together, and he was pretty pointed about not wanting me there. I didn’t like him. Not from the start. He was rude to his sister—his sister, who’d put off a whole year of her life to take care of him—and rude to me, and it seemed like he was just licking his wounds, hiding upstairs. Never missed an opportunity to put me down. Aeronwy, she just brushed it all off. Said he was upset about being sick. Their dad, died of the same cancer Dafydd had, and their mother, she’d had MND, so they were a family that had seen—a lot of sickness. A lot of what happened when people’s bodies…don’t want to work anymore. Intellectually, I told myself that about him, but honestly…I just couldn’t stand him. I thought he was a snobby git.

            “I didn’t put my tent up again after that. Literally, from that night until I left, I stayed over the pub with Aeronwy. I’d help out downstairs, clean things—fix things up using magic when no one was looking. Place started to look really nice. All these little things that had added up over the years, I took care of them. Aeronwy and I, we were doing well. First girlfriend I had as an adult. I really hadn’t—dated anyone since Ginny, back in school. Always too busy, always worried about…being Harry Potter. Worried that that’s how someone would look at me. Aeronwy, being a muggle, she had no idea who I was. I was just some drifter who was possibly a very bad mistake. She tried to get me to talk about myself, but it had been so long since I had to live with muggles that I’d forgotten what it was like. To not be able to talk to them about some things. I couldn’t talk about the war. If I had, she’d have no idea what I was talking about. So I just said I’d had some bad things happen. I’d say a few things here and there, but…not like I should have. Only she was really good about that. ‘You’ll tell me when you’ll tell me,’ she’d say. ‘You’re stone and I’m water and I’ll bloody outlast you.’

            Harry says suddenly, “I loved her. I really honestly was in love with her. First time I was ever in love with anybody. I fucked it up, but when I think about the one person I’d want to go back and try things again with…well. Well, we’ll get there, won’t we.

            “About a month after I moved in, it’s the middle of the day, and all of a sudden Dafydd comes downstairs. I hadn’t actually ever seen him leave the house before. Never seen him in anything but his pajamas before. But he was dressed, proper dressed—had this vest on, shirt buttoned up, a tie even—had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he didn’t even look like himself. Everyone was so pleased to see him. People would ask about him, but I thought they were just being polite. He was such a git, after all. Only once he was down there, I could see that people actually genuinely loved him. I couldn’t figure out why. Then he came around the bar, and Aeronwy, she said, ‘This is a surprise.’ He said, ‘Why would it be? It’s my pub.’ Then he looked at me—I was busy replacing one of the bulbs—and he said, ‘Oi, you—you’re out of a job. Piss off.’ Everyone just laughed—oh, that’s just Dafydd being Dafydd—but I was angry. Because he obviously meant it.

            “Aeronwy, she was just happy that he was up and about again. She found me some work on a farm the next day. Me. I knew nothing about farming. She said it would be good for me. I’d have done anything for her, so off I went. It wasn’t bad work. It was good to be busy. I’m fucking terrible with cows, though. A horse almost took one of my eyes out once. It was a minor miracle I didn’t transmogrify it into a miniature. But yeah—that was my life for a few months. It was about as close to perfect as I think I’ve gotten. Every day, I’d get up before Aeronwy, work the day, come home and see her, have a quick nap, then I’d go down to the pub to keep her company while she worked. Then we’d go upstairs together and—well. It was really nice, though. About as good as I could have hoped for. There were some difficult bits with her—it did drive her mad sometimes that I wouldn’t talk about myself—but mostly we were good.

            “Dafydd, he continued hating me, or at least he acted like it. Any time I’d leave my stuff around the house, he’d gather it all up, fold it, and put it all in a pile next to my rucksack. I asked him to stop—every day I’d have to take out my deodorant and razors and things—and he’d say, ‘You don’t live here, you’re passing through.’ I offered to pay rent, but Aeronwy told me not to be silly. That I was her guest, that she’d asked me to stay and she didn’t expect anything from me besides cleaning up after myself and giving her orgasms. I said I could do both. Dafydd, he made a point of picking away at me. Calling me names. Childish shit. He’s the one called me a transient. ‘Sister, your transient is home from the fields.’ ‘Look everyone. My sister’s transient boyfriend is tracking mud across my clean floors.’ Never called me by my name. Drove me bonkers. Nothing I did made him happy. If we wanted to watch one thing on the telly, he wanted to watch another. If I sat down at the pub to talk to Aeronwy, I was taking up her time. If I didn’t, I was ignoring her. What I wore, how I spoke—everything about me seemed to piss him off.”

            I hope he knows how familiar this all sounds. I’m sure as hell not going to mention it.

            “Aeronwy always had an excuse for him, or she’d just ignore him. I’d complain sometimes, but I could tell that was a losing battle. He was the only family she had left. If it was a choice—well, I wasn’t kidding myself. So I tried to not say anything. He made it pretty damned difficult.

            “It got to be July, and Aeronwy, she’d made the arrangements to go back to school in the fall. Like she said she was going to. We hadn’t really talked about what was going to happen next. She said she loved me, and I’d told her I loved her, and I figured that I’d go with her. What else would I do? We were together, we were in love. Then one day, I came home from work, and it was just her downstairs. She said Dafydd was under the weather, that he’d gone upstairs. Would I look in on him and let her know how he was. Of course that was the last thing I wanted to do, but I said yeah, course I would. I went up, and he was laying down on the couch. Didn’t look well, to be honest. I asked how he was, and he said, ‘Somewhere between cancer and annoyed by the sight of your face.’ Always melodramatic. Asked if he wanted a cup of tea, and he said if he wanted one, he’d have made it himself. I—I got irritated. I’d had a long day at work. I was tired. Just wanted to catch some kip. I went to the loo, and—he’d taken all my stuff out of the bathroom again. Everything. Down to my tooth brush.

            “I lost my temper a bit. Went out there, and I tried to keep my voice down. Tried to be reasonable about it. We were adults, for heaven’s sake. I said, ‘Dafydd, would you please stop taking my things out of the bathroom.’ He didn’t even look at me, just said, ‘How many times do I have to remind you that you don’t actually live here?’ So I said, ‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ and he said, ‘As a matter of fact, you don’t, and if you don’t believe me, remember you’ll be gone in a month anyways.’ And I said to him, ‘That’s right, we’ll be gone, so until then, can you try not to be a tremendous arse and just leave my things be?’

            “And he got this look on his face. This sort of—smile. But it wasn’t a nice smile. He sat up, and he started to laugh. He said, ‘That’s adorable.’ I didn’t know what the hell he was going on about. Certainly no idea why he’d be calling anything I did adorable. But he said, ‘You actually think you’re going back to Oxford with her, don’t you.’ I hadn’t really thought about it, I’d just assumed. The way he said it, though—I dug my heels in, because that’s what I do. I said, of course we were going to Oxford together. And he laughed at me—God, it made me so angry. He got up, and he came right over to me, so we were face to face, and he said I was an idiot. Said, ‘You can’t honestly be that stupid. You’ve been a distraction while my sister is stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, and nothing more. She picked you up off the street, and she’ll leave you there the second she goes. You couldn’t possibly think otherwise.’ Then he kind of looked me over. Looked me over like I was worthless. Like I wasn’t even worth the skin I was standing in. He said, ‘You don’t mean anything to anyone. If you think you mean anything to her, you’re deluding yourself. And unlike you, I’ve actually spoken to her about what she intends to do about you when she goes.’

            “I didn’t want to believe him. He’d wound me up good and proper, though. I said it wasn’t true, and he said, ‘You’re already just a memory,’ and then I hit him.” Harry pauses, briefly closing his eyes. “Punched him, actually. Square in the face. Broke his nose. Just as Aeronwy was coming up to check on him.”

            “Well timed.”

            Harry rubs his fingers into his eyes. “It was such a _nightmare_. He’s falling to the ground, and blood’s just spraying out of his nose—all of a sudden I’m being knocked off my feet as Aeronwy ran right into me to get me away from him. She’s screaming at me, asking what the hell’s wrong with me. He’s not saying a word, just holding his nose and trying to keep all the blood in, but he was covered. She’s completely freaking out, asking what I’ve done, and I—behaved badly. I yelled at her, said he’d told me that she was planning to leave me when she went back to Oxford. She looked at me like I was a moron, told me that of course I was supposed to go to Oxford with her, or I had been until I did this. Then she started screaming at me to get out. So I got up and stormed off.

            “By the time I had cooled down, and figured out what an arse I’d been, it was getting to be late. I went back to the pub, but it had been closed early. All my things were outside. Note on top in her handwriting, telling me to leave my key and fuck off. I stood outside, and I started calling her name. I was yelling her name at the top of my lungs, but she wasn’t having it. I got that through my head after a couple minutes. So I picked up my rucksack, and I started heading through the trees, figuring I’d get to the road, maybe catch a ride to the next town. Just get as far from the place as I could.

            “I was pretty far into the trees before I heard someone coming after me. I was so relieved. I thought she’d decided she still wanted me. When I looked back, though, it was Dafydd. Needless to say, I was not pleased to see him. He was yelling at me to stop, and I was yelling at him to fuck off. He caught up to me, and he was telling me to come back. I thought he was off his rocker. I said, ‘Aren’t you happy? Isn’t this what you want? I’m going.’ And he grabbed me by the arm, and he tried to pull me back the way we’d come. He kept saying, ‘You have to apologize to her. Stop being stubborn, just go back and apologize to her.’ I asked why, and he hollered right in my face, ‘You make her happy.’ Finally, he just grabbed me by my face and he said, ‘Come home.’ It was the first time he’d ever touched me. And next thing I know, I’m kissing him.

            “It was me who kissed him. He was shocked as hell. Probably didn’t help that he had a broken nose. He pushed me back, and I was—Christ, he thought _he_ was shocked? I didn’t know…until I did it, I didn’t even know….” Harry ruffles his hair, looking away from me in embarrassment. “I couldn’t believe I’d done it. We’re just standing there, and he—he touched my face again, and I shoved him. But then he tried again, and—and I kissed him again. And…yeah.”

            I give it a few seconds, then say with meaning, “Out in the woods?”

            “Yep,” Harry says tightly.

            “You move quickly.”

            “Acting without thinking. It’s my trademark. After…well, after, I just got my things together and took off. Didn’t say anything to him, didn’t say anything to her, just got myself to the road and waited until I found someone willing to give me a ride.”

            “Did you ever see either of them again?”

            He sighs deeply. “No. When I came back to the hills, I found a place in the south, but I went up to Tristan’s Cross. To see what happened to them. Dafydd, he’d passed on. Cancer came back. Someone else was running the pub. Someone I didn’t know. He said Aeronwy, she had gotten married. Some bloke she met at Oxford.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            He shrugs. “Just the way life happens.”

            “Sometimes the way life happens is absolute shit.”

            “That’s true enough.” Harry shakes his head, and says, “I literally didn’t know until—how could I have not known?”

            “Sometimes people don’t.”

            “You knew. You knew when you were a _child_.”

            “Yeah,” I say, “but I always know things before you do.”

            He grins at that. Then he says, “What was that story about you kissing a cage dancer?”

            I snort, then I say, “Only fair.”

            So I tell him the story, and he listens, and he laughs in all the right places, and I feel better.

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

I think I’m waking up, but I don’t want to. I feel like I could sleep for a few more hours. I’m warm. Sun’s beaming into the room. I’m comfortable…so comfortable….

            Who the fuck’s that?

            I lift my head—right. _Right_. That’s a thing that occurred.

             It did. Didn’t it?

            It better have. Otherwise there’s an intruder in my home.

            Throwing back the covers, I push myself up. After a hesitation, I pull the sheets neatly over my bed, then I pick up my phone. I’m in a tank top and pajama trousers and I feel a bit naked. Only it’s my house, and it’s not like he hasn’t seen me in my pajamas before.

            Hesitant, I leave my room, and walk to the mouth of the hallway. And yes, Harry is sitting on the window sill, bathed in sun and looking back over his shoulder, looking slightly guilty about something. “Did I wake you?” he asks.

            It was late last night when we finished talking. Just stories about our lives. Trading back and forth this time, instead of only me prattling on. It was dark, and there didn’t seem much point to trying to find him a hotel, so…Harry Potter slept on my couch. I feel like there’s a historical society somewhere preparing to erect a plaque.

            There are things out on my counter. Things have been rearranged. “No. Well, yes.” I yawn, padding over to the kitchen counter to assess the damage. “What time is it?”

            “A little after eleven.”

            “I don’t usually sleep that late. Sorry, I’m not a very good host.”

            “You weren’t expecting company. Besides, I don’t need to be entertained.”

            “Was the couch all right?”

            “Lovely.”

            Hands on my hips, I say, “The real question is, what the hell were you attempting _here_?”

            My coffee machine is half filled with a brackish brown liquid, and the counter is littered with grinds. There’s a greasy, half soaked—but empty—filter, and a spoon that’s caked in used grounds. “Yes,” Harry says sheepishly. “About that.”

            I turn, raising a brow. “Continue.”

            “I just wanted a cuppa, is all.”

            “I don’t drink tea.”

            “Well, then this is mostly your fault, because what proper Englishman doesn’t have tea in his house?”

            “One, I’m not a proper anything, and two, I’m not English. I’m an American citizen.”

            He gags melodramatically. “Don’t remind me. Traitor.”

            I point at my abused coffee maker. “Harry.”

            “Right. So, I thought I would make coffee instead. Only I’ve never used a machine to make coffee. I usually do it over the stove. I thought it couldn’t be that hard.” He raises his hands apologetically. “Apparently it’s fairly difficult.”

            There’s a mug sitting between his feet. “You’re not actually drinking the swill you made, are you?”

            “Only seemed fair.”

            With a roll of my eyes, I lift a hand and call the cup to me. It sails through the air, and I grab it without spilling a drop. I empty it into the sink. “You didn’t think to clean up after yourself?”

            “I was going to have my coffee first.”

            There’s something strange in his voice. A sort of flatness. Turning back, I ask, “That’s not coffee. That is abomination.” He’s studying me, a bit of a furrow between his brows. “Why are you staring at me?”

            Harry snaps out of it, saying, “I wasn’t.” He looks down at the street, and taps a finger against the window. “Who are they? I keep seeing them.”

            Taking out the pot, I pour the contents out into the sink. “Somber looking gentlemen? Dressed in black, plenty of beards?”

            “That would be them.”

            “Satmars,” I reply. “Jewish sect. We have a lot of orthodox Jews in the city. Hasids. Came here after the war.” I pause. “The big muggle war, the Second World War—“

            “Yes, _thank you_ , Malfoy. I’m not a complete idiot.”

            Wetting a cloth, I mutter, “Tell that to my coffee maker.”

            “I haven’t seen any women.”

            “They’re around. The men, though, they run the community. The women, they’re not allowed to.”

            I hear the turn in Harry’s tone. “That’s even less clever than wearing black in summer.”

            I wipe off the counter. “They’ve been a persecuted people. I try to leave them alone, so long as they leave me alone.”

            “Have they not?”

            “No—good lord,” I say. I’ve opened up the top of the coffee maker and—raised by wolves. That’s the only answer. The man was raised by wolves. “I was going to say, you owe me a coffee, but after this, you might owe me a new machine.”

            “I am sorry—I’ll reimburse you—“

            “I’m kidding. Lighten up. This is one of those rare instances when my wand is entirely justified.” I go to get it, then start cleaning out the chunks of grounds from the inside of the machine. “The Satmars, yes? They’re not too pleased about people like me around here. They’re not too pleased about anyone who’s not like them being around, honestly.” I gather the grounds into one large ball, lifting it into the air at the end of my wand, then guide them into the garbage can. “They’ll yell at the women sometimes for being indecent. Yell at everyone for being _artisen_.”

            “What’s that?”

            I toss my wand on the counter and go about filling the pot and mug with soapy water. “Apparently it means artists. It’s what they call all of us who moved in here. This used to just be their neighbourhood. But the rent was low enough that people started coming in—mostly white people of a certain look—“ I half turn to him, gesturing to myself, before continuing to clean. “And we’ve largely taken over. Brooklyn, it’s always been famous as an enclave for immigrants. Now, though, it’s all craft beers and white faces and raising rents. I say this, of course, as part of the problem. But I’ve been here near a decade. They’ll have to do more than narrow their eyes at me to run me off.”

            “Draco?”

            “Mm.”

            “You’re doing dishes.”

            “Yes, because you didn’t.”

            I can almost feel him blushing. “Sorry, I’d already made a lot of noise and mess—“

            “You really need to learn when I’m kidding,” I say, washing off the cloth. My phone starts to vibrate down the counter. I’ll get to it as soon as everything’s good to soak. “If you give me a chance to shower, we’ll go out, find some overpriced artisanal food products to stuff our faces with?”

            “Yeah, all right.”

            “Suppose I should ask again if there’s anything you want to see in New York, since you’re here. Have you thought about it at all?” I wipe my hands dry on a towel, having a glance at things. Back to normal. I push the coffee maker back against the wall. The true test will come tomorrow when I try to make a cup for myself.

            Unsurprisingly, Harry says, “Not really. You know the city better than I do. Anything you think I should see?”

            Picking up my phone, I give it a thought. I almost suggest the Brooklyn Museum, but catch myself. I remember why he’s here. I remember why things are wrong.

            I push on.

            Opening my messages, I say, “We could go to Manhattan, if you’re keen on it. There’s plenty of famous things there, if you want to be a tourist.” He makes a face, and I smile a little. “All right, how about I—“ I look at the last message, and stop. “Fuck.”

            “Something happened?”

            With a shrug, I say, “No.” I sit down on the other end of the window sill, pulling a leg underneath myself. “Just bad timing.”

            Harry gestures to the door. “If I’m keeping you from something, I can—“

            “No, nothing like that. Jason gave me the week off. I didn’t ask for it, but he’s good like that. He’s an absolute pushover for me, the truth be told.” I hold my phone up a little. “He’s come up with another tattoo for me, and he’s had a cancellation. Wanted to know if I could come in for it.” I know he doesn’t have any openings for another two weeks, unless he decides to stay late one night, and I don’t like to do that to him.

            “Could we go do that?”

            Surprised, I say, “You want to see me get a tattoo?”

            Harry thinks about it, then nods. “Is that all right?”

            “It won’t be very exciting for you. It’ll just be a lot of noise and sitting there while I’m jabbed repeatedly with a needle.”

            “Sounds fascinating.”

            Folding my arms, I say, “Let me get this straight. You want to come to where I work—to see me get a tattoo?”

            “Yes.”

            “I don’t know how I feel about that.”

            He smiles at me. “Oh, come on. I’ve already seen your one job. And I’ve slept on your couch. What could go wrong?”

            “Ask my coffee maker.”

            “Are you worried I’ll say something stupid in front of your friends?” he asks, but not unkindly.

            “I know you’d do that.”

            The side of his mouth pulls up even further. “I’ll behave.”

            I look at him a moment, then I shrug. Even I know it’s not worth it to try and argue with this man every single time. “Fine,” I say, texting Jason to let him know I’m on my way. “But you owe me _expensive_ coffee.”

 

“So how do you pick them?” Harry asks.

            He’s looking at where my arms are hidden under the sleeves of my green hoodie. It’s not like I could put sunscreen on, right before going to get a tattoo. Grimacing, I say, “I don’t, and let me be one hundred percent, blindingly clear on this. Don’t ever go to a tattooist and say, ‘Just do whatever you want, I don’t care what you put on me.’ That is insane and foolish and anyone worth their salt would throw you back on the streets.”

            “I’m assuming that’s what you do though.” I shrug, and he snorts, glancing up at an overhead plane. “And I’m the one who makes rash decisions.”

            I’ve been thinking about the way we walk. It’s a little thing, but until this last day, I’ve never had the opportunity to walk by Harry’s side. I always walk with my head up, face forward, going from point A to point B. Meanwhile, Harry invariably walks with his hands in his pockets, eyes seeking out every new thing. His head swivels to and fro, and he’ll stop for a few seconds at a time to study something. Whenever I ask what he’s doing, or if he wants to go in somewhere, he’ll just smile and catch up, saying, “Oh, having a look.”

            “I’ve never jumped on the international—“

            “Yes, we’ve been over that several times now. We’re talking about your impulsive decisions.”

            I can’t help but laugh. “I wouldn’t call it that. It’s Jason. He’s my best mate. He and Derrell are. I’d trust them with my life. Jason, he knows what I like. And it isn’t like I don’t know what he’s putting on me before it happens. He shows me the sketch, and I say yes or no.”

            “Have you ever said no?”

            “I have. He wanted to do a poppy, because he said I didn’t have enough red on me. Myself, I’m not overly fond of red, so I said that was something I could live without.” I tap my upper right arm. “That’s how I got the tiger lily instead.”

            “They’re all quite lovely.” I glance at him, blinking, and Harry quickly says, “I mean—they don’t look like what I think of when I think of tattoos.”

            “When you think of tattoos, are you thinking of wizarding ones? Because those are in a world of awful unto their own.”

            “No—well, slightly.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Have you seen the ones people are getting these days? The cheap ones, that go running across their faces?”

            I roll my eyes. “Yes. Samatchin is full of the blighters.”

            “Lunacy,” Harry says. “But I mean a lot of the ones I see on muggles.”

            “Tattooing is like any art. You have good artists, then you have a lot of mediocre artists, some terrible artists, but then you have a few great ones. I think Jason definitely has some great moments. Fortunately, all the ones he’s done for me have been perfect.” I tug up my right sleeve, showing Harry the hazy purple and green snake on the back of my forearm. “That was my first. They all rather look like watercolours, don’t they.”

            He snaps his fingers. “That’s the word I was looking for. Yeah, that’s—they’re something else.” He glances at me, and smirks. “I can’t believe you of all people have tattoos up and down your arms. In colour, no less.”

            “I admit, my ‘I only dress in black’ stage lasted for an embarrassing length of time.” I nod across the street. “Over here.”

            “Marley’s,” Harry says under his breath.

            I’m trying to ignore this worrisome sensation in my stomach. These are my friends. They’ll love me no matter what. They’ll certainly make fun of me no matter what. Only this is the first time I’ve ever introduced anyone from my old life to them. This has the potential to be very precarious.

            I haven’t said anything to Harry, though. I’ve not asked him to avoid topics or be on his best behaviour or the like. I suppose—well, I suppose I trust him enough not to make a mess of things.

            Considering what he did to my kitchen this morning, it might be a leap.

            I grab the door, holding it open for him. I do it on instinct. He glances at me in surprise, but steps inside. Malfoy composure keeps me blank, at least on the outside. Why in the hell did I open the door for him?

            Isaac’s behind the desk. He looks uncertain a second, the way people always do when a death has occurred and they try to work out how to address it (or not). He smiles and puts up his hands. “I swear, I haven’t touched a thing.”

            “I don’t believe you,” I say, walking around the counter. “Isaac, Harry, Harry, Isaac.” I don’t linger, hoping Harry will just keep walking. He doesn’t, though, stopping to say hi. Of course he does.

            Jason looks up when I enter the studio, smiling. “Hey buddy,” he says, peeling off his gloves and tossing them out before coming to hug me.

            I accept the hug gladly. He is always warm and soft, the antithesis of my own body. He was a man made for embracing. I learned that almost from the start. I lay my head down on his shoulder and close my eyes a second.

            “How you doing,” he murmurs in my ear.

            “Miserable,” I reply, and step back, still holding his arms. “But upright.”

            “Hi gorgeous,” Leanna says. She’s leaning over a woman’s bared back, her glasses on. She gives me a sly grin. “We have a new UPS guy.”

            “I miss all of a few hours,” I say in exasperation, but I stop when Jason narrows his eyes, looking past my shoulder. I look back.

            Harry stands in the doorway. He smiles like it’s a shield. “Help you?” Jason says shortly.

            Patting his chest, I let him go. “Oh calm down.” I gesture Harry forward, not missing the flicker of relief in his eyes. “Harry, this is Jason, who I’ve told you about, and that’s Leanna there, and there’s Rodrigo at the back.” Now I have to do the opposite. What do I say? How do I word this? “Everyone, this is Harry.” And—? “He’s a friend from England.”

            That certainly catches everyone’s attention. Including his, though he quickly masks it. I refuse to blush. I bloody well refuse.

            Jason of course is the first to recover, stepping forward to hold out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Harry. Welcome to Marley’s. I’m the Marley in question.”

            “Cheers,” Harry says, shaking his hand with a nod.

            Leanna says, “You’ve never brought anyone in before.”

            “I have so,” I respond, irritated.

            “You have not.”

            “Joshua and Matty and Derrell. You’ve come to watch as well.”

            “Yeah, but I mean anyone new.”

            I wave her off, and turn back to Jason. “What are we doing?”

            He’s still giving Harry a look, but turns back to me. “Yeah! Ah—come on back, have a look.”

            I nod Harry to go sit by the wall, on the chair by Jason’s station. “If Leanna tries to drain you of information, just remember— _The Prophet_ has a New York branch.” He rolls his eyes, and goes to sit down.

            It turns out that the tattoo Jason has in mind for me is an anatomical heart. Not in red, though—he knows what I like. Instead, it’s in the faded brown of parchment. “I know it’s a little off the beaten path for what we’ve done before,” he says.

            I shake my head. I have animals, comets, trees, flowers—why not this? “It’s lovely.” I give his cheek a kiss, because I love him. Because I know he’s drawn me something since I’m sad.

            I return to the studio, where Harry immediately falls silent. Leanna looks at me meaningfully. “So. Harry was just telling me that he’s heading home tonight.”

            “He is.”

            “And he just got here yesterday.”

            “He did.”

            “And that he hadn’t planned on making the trip.”

            “He didn’t.”

            Returning her attention to her client, Leanna murmurs, “Curiouser and curiouser.”

            I shoot Harry a look, and he shrugs, abashed. Can’t blame him. Leanna is probably better at interrogation than most FBI agents.

            I take off my hoodie, hanging it on the coat rack, then I go steal a hair tie from Leanna. I stop to have a quick look at what Rodrigo is doing. Third session on a kindergarten teacher’s back piece, a gigantic Madonna with her tits out. I bite my lip, then I pull my hair back, putting it up in a tight ponytail.

            Jason comes out with the stencil. “All right, you know the drill.”

            Oh shit. Yes I do. I didn’t think this through.

            The thing is—yes, Harry saw me briefly without my shirt in the dream, but we don’t exactly look the same in the real world. The details are far more vivid out here.

            Nothing for it. Taking hold of my tank top, I pull it over my head.

            After a second, I spare a glance at Harry. He’s staring at my torso, stricken. Fuck.

            Balling up my shirt, I toss it at him. He catches it, startled. “Do something useful and hold onto that, would you?” I say, as if I’m unbothered by the whole thing. I walk over to Jason, who’s standing by the mirror.

            “Do we think it’s weird, putting it on your back?”

            “We’re not bloody putting it on my chest,” I answer. I stand still, shirtless, unashamed, in a room full of people. These are my friends. They don’t care about my scars.

            Except him, of course. I don’t think there will ever be any changing that.

 

“May I ask a really stupid question?”

            I open my eyes, looking at Harry. “The answer is yes, it _obviously_ hurts. I’m having several needles jabbed into me several times a second and I’m not a masochist. It’s not like I’m getting off on this.”

            He makes a sound that I can barely make out over the tattoo machine. Sounds a bit like a growl. He’s making a terrible mess of my shirt in his lap, pressing it together and crumpling it up. He doesn’t seem to be aware that he’s doing this.

            I’m lying on my belly, arms under my head. Jason’s been going for about a half hour now. My shoulder definitely stings, but not as bad as when he tattooed the cherry blossoms on top. There’s slightly more flesh on the back of my shoulder, but not by much.

            “No tattoos, Harry?” Jason asks.

            “No. Several piercings in my genitals, though,” Harry responds.

            I snort, turning my face downwards. “Don’t make me laugh. It could ruin his work.”

            “Oh—Jesus, I didn’t even think of that—“

            “He’s teasing you,” Jason says. “Mostly. I’ve got steady hands.”

            I watch, suspicious, as Leanna comes rolling across the room on her stool. She looks like an utter predator, crossing her legs at the knees and focusing her gaze on Harry with laser like precision. He gazes back with raised brows, able to detect trouble.

            “So,” she says, “where did you meet Draco?”

            Harry glances at me. I don’t help him out. I want to see what he’ll do. “School,” Harry says. Good answer. “Well—“ Don’t fuck this up, Harry. “I actually met him, getting uniforms for school.”

            “And when was this?”

            “Your station cleaned up, Lee?” Jason asks.

            “I beg your pardon, Jason Marley?”

            “I’m just saying, because Draco brought a friend doesn’t mean you need to interrogate him.”

            “Like you’re not as curious as I am.”

            “There’s really nothing to me,” Harry protests. “I’m very boring.”

            She flicks her eyes over him. “You look anything but boring.”

            “Leanna,” I say.

            “Well?” she asks me. “Are you two fucking or can I flirt with him? I’m going to anyways, but I’ll be more subtle about it if you’re not.”

            Harry is wide eyed, but I say, “The day that happened, the universe would actually collapse upon itself from the sheer cognitive dissonance. Don’t let her rattle you, Potter.”

            He seems to recover a bit at that. Turning to her, with a perfectly charming smile, Harry says, “He’s not really my type, is he. Skin and bones. I’d probably break him. You don’t look easily broken.”

            “Oh, cupcake,” Leanna says, reaching out to cup his chin. “I’d eat you _alive_.” Now that she knows he won’t be too quickly cowed, Leanna seems to relax. “So you were school friends.” We catch each other’s eyes, and grin. “Is that a yes or a no?”

            “Go on,” I say. “Tell her.”

            Inhaling deeply, Harry looks at me as he speaks. “Up until that point in my life, I’d literally never met anyone I hated more.”

            I struggle not to crack up as Leanna protests, “Not our Draco.”

            “Your Draco was a terrible little git. Bullied me and everyone else relentlessly. Thought he was superior to everyone else. Absolutely fucking miserable in every way, shape, and form.” He smiles the more he speaks.

            “Meanwhile,” I say, “he was the most smug, entitled, foolish person I’d ever laid eyes on. And remember, I knew all the old families, Harry, so that’s saying a _lot_.”

            “You exaggerate.”

            “You were just like all the others. ‘Don’t look at me, oh, I’m not really anything special, but oh please God, if you don’t look at me every second of the day I think I’ll perish.’”

            “You are such an absolute prick sometimes,” he says, but he’s laughing.

            Readjusting my head on my arms, I say, “Did you ever think of getting a tattoo?”

            “Me?” Harry says, amused. “No.”

            “Lies. I can see it in your eyes. It would have been something terrible, wouldn’t it.” I want to make him blush. “Ring of the Gryffindor colours around your cock?”

            He bursts out laughing, cheeks darkening. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

            “Lord, it wouldn’t be a golden snitch on your arse, would it?”

            He puts his face behind his hand, shaking with laughter, as Leanna says, “A what?”

            Harry lowers his hand, wrapping his arms around himself. “If it was anything, it would _clearly_ be a Nargle on my bicep.”

            “Butterbeer logo tramp stamp?”

            “DA,” Harry says, tapping the side of his neck. “Right here.”

            “Broomstick down your thigh.”

            “Blast ended skrewt.” He pauses. “That one _would_ be on my arse.”

            I have to turn my face down against the table so I don’t laugh too hard.

 

“That wasn’t too bad,” Harry says as we leave the shop.

            I look at him, and I bark. “You’re sweating.”

            “I am not.”

            I reach out, pushing his head away, and in the process manage to wet my fingers with the sweat along his brow. “What do you call this, then?”

            He gives me a light shove back. “I’d call that being incredibly rude. Aren’t you purebloods supposed to know better?” I whack him again, and Harry puts up playful fists. “Swear to Merlin, Malfoy….”

            I’m shaking my head, but I catch sight of all my friends, standing in the doorway to the studio and watching us. Leanna gives me a big grin and two thumbs up.

            Blushing, I grab Harry by the arm before he can see, and push him onwards. “Let’s go find something to eat.”

            “Hey,” he says, “have you ever noticed that Rodrigo looks like a miniature Hagrid?”

            “Bite your _tongue_.”

           

“Here,” I say, holding out the knick knack.

            Harry looks up in surprise, swallowing his mouthful of hot dog. He’s on his third, and I swear he’s going to make himself sick. He takes the miniature Statue of Liberty into his hand, studying her.

            I don’t know. I went to go get more napkins, because he was dripping mustard all over, and I saw the thing in the kiosk behind the hot dog cart.

            “What’s this for?” Harry asks.

            “All tourists need some terrible souvenir to take home with them when they come to the city.”

            “Do you have anything like this?”

            “No, because I’m not a tourist. I live here. Stop poking her. She’s not magic, she won’t move.” I stretch my arms along the back of the park bench. The back of my shoulder hurts, but it’s certainly in no way unbearable. This is my twenty third tattoo, after all. Twenty fourth, if you consider the absent space where my mark was.

            People pass by on the path in front of us. Families, couples, a few people playing with one of those flying discs over by the trees. I thought it only fair to bring him to Central Park. It was the only thing related to the city that he knew.

            “You’ve never given me anything before.”

            “I bought you that second hot dog. That surely counts.”

            He’s studying the figurine like it’s something special. I almost wish I hadn’t gotten it for him, and I’m not sure why. “Thank you. Draco.”     

            “Still difficult for you to say my name, isn’t it.”

            “Yeah. But less, as things go on.” He casts me a sideways smile, sticking the little Liberty into his pocket, and continuing to eat.

            I can’t stop myself. “You’re going to be ill, if you don’t stop eating.”

            “Can’t help it. Hermione thinks it’s residual, from when I was a kid. I see food, I just have to have all of it.”

            “How is she? Her and Weasley get over that tiff?”

            “That tiff you provoked.”

            “You know that’s not true.”

            Harry glowers at me from under his brows, but only for a moment. “They’re quite well, thank you.”

            “And—Rose?”

            “She’s brilliant. That reminds me—I should get her something while I’m here.”

            “There’s that souvenir store just down the way. If you have to get something for every member of the Weasley clan, I’m sure the hucksters would be willing to accommodate.”

            Harry doesn’t say anything a moment. “Nah. They’ll be all right.”

            I look at him. “Oh, if you think I’m just letting that slide by, you clearly don’t know me in the least.”

            “It’s nothing, I—just don’t think I’ll be telling any of them about…this.”

            “What, coming to New York?” A thought crosses my mind, and I say, “Me?”

            Harry picks up a napkin, fastidiously cleaning around his mouth. Might be the first time that adverb has ever applied to a single thing the man has done. “Both. To be honest.”

            “Ah,” I say. I shouldn’t be bothered by it, and I’m not. For the most part. There is a small bit that rankles a bit, being reminded that I’m someone who people should be ashamed of.

            “It’s not that—to tell you the truth….” Harry clears his throat. “This has been nice, hasn’t it? I mean—fuck, the reason I came here, that’s awful, I don’t want to—“

            “We don’t have to get into that. Trust me, I’m using you as a distraction from that entire thing.”

            “Right. Well—I don’t know how you feel about it, but…everything in my life, it always feels like…like everybody wants to know every single thing. Even my family. They worry, and when they worry, they want to know every detail. It makes them feel better, but I feel sort of…like I can’t breathe. Having something they don’t know about—it’s actually a bit of a relief.”

            “Plus you’ve no idea how you’d explain not hating me to the Weasleys.”

            “I’ve considered that,” Harry says bluntly, and I smirk. “Is it all right with you—if I don’t—?”

            I shrug. “You do as you please. Not like I want anyone in England to know where I am.”

            “You always say it like that.”

            “Say what?”

            “You say ‘in England.’ You never say ‘back home’ or anything like that.”

            “It’s not my home. This is my home.”

            “It’s where you came from, though.”

            “Do you consider the house you grew up in to be your home?”

            “There’s no reason to be clever.”

            “The title to your follow up autobiography—“

            “Walked right into that one,” Harry mutters.

            “There’s no ‘back home.’ I am home. This is where I live. This is where I’m from now. This is where my family is now. All that’s left for me in England is scorn.”

            “Your mother.”

            “My mother is still certain I’ll spawn little Malfoys and bring honour to the family name. I swear, when I masturbate, I worry a house elf might show up and steal my semen for an attempt at in vitro fertilization.” Harry almost chokes on his hot dog, and I say, “I told you having the third one wasn’t good for you.”

            Coughing into the napkin, Harry says, “Yes, that was definitely the hot dog’s fault.”

            “Mother’s in the manor. She doesn’t leave it.”

            “What, you mean….”

            “She hasn’t left it since she went before the Wizengamot, save to visit Father, which is of course incredibly healthy. She’s been in that house for going on twelve and a half years. My father’s in his cell, and my mother’s in one of her own making.”

            “Is she…afraid to go out?”

            I inhale deeply. It’s a complicated topic. “Maybe. In a way. I think that staying in that house…she can preserve the notion of the world she wanted. Everything dark and mannered. Her lessers do as they’re told, she is queen, and she can tend to the legacy by keeping up the house until Father returns. If she left, she’d have to face reality. The world’s forgotten Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy. When he leaves prison, there will be pieces in the paper, but they will last a week or two. They have no power anymore.”

            “Your father’s a resourceful man.”

            I let out a single, bitter laugh. “He’s been in Azkaban twelve years. He is not…he is not the man who went in.”

            “When you went to see him—“

            “I really don’t want to discuss that,” I say. It’s a beautiful day, and I’ve a new tattoo, and I don’t hate the man who is sitting beside me. Our time could be much better spent.

            “Fair enough. What would you like to talk about?”

            I give it a moment’s thought. I catch onto a topic. “This morning. Something I did bothered you.”

            He looks legitimately confused. “What was that?”

            “I used magic to pick up your cup. For some reason, that seemed to make you terribly pensive.” Harry’s face changes, and he looks down at the remnants of his hot dog. So I wasn’t imagining it. “Why was that?”

            He doesn’t say anything for a long while. I don’t poke, I don’t prod, I just let him come to things in his own time. If he wants to. Harry raises an index finger, sticking the last of his hot dog into his mouth. He chews for a long time, watching the other people in the park.

            Finally, he swallows, and I swear he looks a little frightened. But he’s always been a brave bugger, so he pushes it away, setting his jaw in that way of his. “I suppose I was a bit…irritated. Truth be told.”

            “Irritated? What had I done?”

            “You rarely use magic. You seem to hate magic. But you can just wave a hand, and it still works for you. Like not a day has gone by.”

            “It’s magic. It’s not finite—“

            Harry says in a rush, “I can’t do that.”

            I look at him in confusion. Then I realize something. The whole time he’s been here, I haven’t seen him perform a spell. Not once.

            He sounds a bit angry as he speaks, but his anger isn’t directed at me. He stares down at the ground as he speaks. “I can’t just—hold out a hand and think something and have it happen. I can do magic with my wand—I’m not that useless—but things that I could do—before—I can’t. Anymore. Haven’t been able to do—in a long time.”

            “How long?” I ask quietly, but I think I already know the answer.

            Harry swallows, his brow furrowed. “Since I killed him.” He sticks a hand in his hair, messing it up. “I didn’t…didn’t notice it right off. I’ve always been better with my wand anyways. Always hated apparating. Anything I didn’t do with my wand, I could do it well enough, but now…it was honestly months went by. I just thought I was tired. People said I was tired. That I’d been through a lot. Maybe that had something to do with it. That’s what the family said. Hermione, she thought I should see a mind healer for it, but she thinks I should see a mind healer for everything.”

            “Perhaps you should.”

            “Don’t you fucking start,” he mutters. “It wasn’t until I started training with the Aurors that I realized—I couldn’t do things that I could before. Even with my wand. That’s why…that’s why I was such a shit Auror. It wasn’t just that the others had all the schooling that they should. It was me. Everything I could do without thinking before, now it was twice as hard.”

            I don’t take the piss out of him. The old voice is there, a little triumphant, but it’s an ugly thing, and I brush it away.

            “They should have never let me be an Auror,” Harry says abruptly. “I understand I’m at fault, I understand I should have stopped. But I was eighteen, and arrogant, and so— _scared_ —I couldn’t stop myself. I just kept telling myself that it would all be fine, that it was just a bad stretch. I’d defeated the worst wizard of all time. Of course I could do it. The people around me—they could have stopped me. They should have. They should have but they didn’t because of who I am. I know they fudged my marks on my exams. They were easier on me than they ever should have been. And I let it happen. You’re right. I’m entitled. I’m better than I used to be about it, but—I let my own legend get to me. I was the Boy Who Lived. Obviously I’d come through when it counted. I always had. Except I didn’t. Time and again—people died when I was on the job because I was such an awful Auror. And I kept on with it. Four years, what the hell was I—“

            Harry rubs a brisk hand over his face. I don’t say anything. I’m not sure what I could say to him.    

            “I don’t talk about it. There were always stories here and there in the paper. Nobody ever suggested that there was something wrong with me, just that I’d lost my nerve. The family, they don’t say anything anymore. Hermione knows better than to bring it up anymore. I actually screamed at her once—worst I ever behaved to her, our whole lives, and I was twenty five years old. Ron, he tried once or twice, but I said some pretty terrible things to him too and he didn’t try again. But there’s something wrong with me. I can’t—“ He shakes his head. “I told you yesterday, about when I was travelling, and that woman recognized me in Ipswich. And I apparated. I splinched myself. I look up and half my boot and half my foot in it was lying in a ditch. I managed to stick it back on with a spell and some potions, but—honestly, it’s still shaped funny. Never saw a healer for it. Too embarrassed. There’s something wrong with me. There’s something wrong.”

            “Do you intend to do anything about it?” I ask quietly.

            “No,” he says straight away. “Anyone I went to for help—it would be in the papers. People would talk—they’d talk, and they’d all—“ Harry shivers. “I don’t need anything more. I’ve got the house, and the wands—I can work with the wands, that makes it better. And it’s not that—I’m not the worst wizard who ever lived. I’m just—not quite average. And I was supposed to be….”

            I glance at him. “Go on. Say it.”

            He sighs. “I was supposed to be a great wizard.”

            “There are better things to be than a great wizard.”

            Morose, Harry says, “Like what?”

            For Christ’s sake. I smack him as hard as I can over the back of the head.

            Harry grabs his head, yelping. “How about a good man?” I say.

            He starts to say, “F—“ but a woman and her little girl walk by on the path directly in front of us. “Florean Fortescue,” Harry finishes, scowling at me.

            I shake my head. “Don’t be so melodramatic. So you didn’t turn out how everyone expected. Even if you had, it still would have been smothering.”

            “No reason to hit me.”

            “After all the stupid things you said while we were dreaming, you have no idea how many good hard thwacks over the head you’ve got coming to you.”

            He still looks disgruntled, but he’s settled a little. He wraps his arms around himself, chewing on his lip. I see a shadow pass over his face.

            “There’s…something I’ve never said to anyone,” he continues.

            Cautious, I say, “Very well.”

            Harry almost seems to think better of it for a moment, and I wonder if he’s going to change the subject. He rubs the side of his nose, sighing. “I can’t believe I’m even considering telling _you_ this. Of all people.”

            “If you think you’re going to talk me into making an Unbreakable Vow, you can get fucked. Besides, if the two of us wandered into the trees and took out our wands, I think someone would probably alert the NYPD.”

            Harry smiles faintly. It disappears quickly, though, as he gazes across the field. He says, “It was him. I think…I think it happened even before I killed him. It happened when he killed me. Or he killed the piece of himself that was in me. I think that’s why I was brilliant as a kid. I don’t think it was me. I think it’s that I had a piece of him, and he was the brilliant one, and once it was gone—I was just a regular wizard again. The only reason I was able to do him in is because I’m master of the Elder Wand. That’s the long and short of it, Draco. I was only ever special because he marked me as his equal. He marked the both of us, only he put a part of himself in me, and that’s the reason I was…different. Once that was gone…the only part left was me. And it turns out that bit is pretty average.”

            I keep quiet. He doesn’t want to be comforted. He just wants to say it.

            Face contorted, Harry looks at me with worry. “You won’t say anything to anyone—will you?”

            I reply, “Not a soul.”

            He nods, looking back down at the ground. I lift my hand and run it over his hair once. He closes his eyes, and I let my arm lay back along the bench.

            If he thinks that Voldemort is the only thing that ever made him special, he has more problems than I can address in an afternoon.

 

We come out on the platform, and I neatly push away the woman who tries to shove us forward, cutting her off in the middle of the, “Move along—“

            “Yes, I _know_ ,” I say with an eye roll. Harry snorts, and we almost lose one another in the crowd of people trying to get off the apparition platform. I see his green eyes and he reaches through, grabbing my sleeve and yanking me off to the side.

            We twist and work our way through until we find a wall. Harry shakes his head. “This is not a good system.”

            “I feel that way about everything magic related.” I see a teenager approaching us with a handful of pamphlets for repealing the 2nd, and I point at him. “I swear to God, I’ll scorch your tiny mustache off your face—“ He turns tail and flees.

            Harry is laughing at my side. His whole face lights up when he does that. “Are you like that with your kids?”

            “No, my kids aren’t that dense. Do you remember where the station is?”

            He blinks, then says, “Ah—yeah.” He thumbs over his shoulder. “I can find it if—you—“

            I realize what he thinks I meant. “I’m going to walk you, you git. I was just checking to see if you needed a reminder.”

            He shakes his head, but he’s smiling as we stick to the side of the street while we walk.

            He showed up with nothing on him but money in his pocket, and he’s going with that and two miniature Statues of Liberty. Peculiar, infuriating man. And I think I mean that in the best way.

            We get to ten meters from the International Floo station, and we stop. So—what should I say?

            Harry sticks his hands in his pockets. “Ah—thanks for putting me up. Unexpected and everything.”

            “Thank you for not vomiting hot dog all over me as we apparated over here.”

            He snorts, and glances at the crowd before looking back at me. “Will you be okay?”

            “No,” I say, “but this was….” I pause. “This was the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel worried. So…thank you for doing that.”

            He seems surprised, but teases, “It’s my winning personality.”

            “That would certainly be the first time I ever said that about you.”

            “It certainly would.”

            “Might be true, though.”

            Harry looks at me, and those green eyes—Christ, they’re something else.

            I step back, sticking my hands in my back pockets. “Thank you for coming. It was very considerate.”

            Clearing his throat, Harry takes a step back himself. “That’s my middle name.”        

            “I’ve read your biography. I know that’s not true.”

            “Would you _stop_ reminding me?” Harry says, exasperated.

            I’m not sure what else to do here. So I stick out my hand. “Have a good trip.”

            Harry takes my hand, and gives it a squeeze. “Take care, Draco.”

            It sounds normal coming off his lips this time. Not sure why that strikes me—I let go. I give him a nod, then I turn and walk away.

            This is the right thing to do, isn’t it? It’s like putting a cap on the whole summer. We were caught in that strange thing together, we’ve earned a greater understanding of each other—God save us—and now we’re parting on good terms. So that’s the end of it.

            I still don’t know why he came.

            I turn around before I can stop myself, and call, “Harry?”

            He stops, his hand on the door, and I’ve no idea why he looks relieved for a split second. “Yeah?”

            Yes, Draco? What exactly are we doing here?

            I stare a moment, then I say, “Would you like to come back? For—a proper visit, I mean.”

            What the _fuck_ am I doing—

            I forget that when a smile curls across his face. “Yes. I’d like that.” He lets go of the door, just standing there, just smiling. He doesn’t know what he’s doing either. Good. That’s good.

            Jesus, do something.

            I stride forward, saying, “I should probably get your e-mail or phone number or something, in that case. Not like you can fire call me.”

            “Right,” Harry says. His cheeks are dark, but he looks happy. Why does he look happy? Why do I _feel_ happy? He pats his pockets. “Ah—“

            “You weren’t prepared,” I mutter. “I’m shocked.”

            “Would you _please_ get fucked?” Harry laughs.

            I pull out my phone, unlocking it, and pass it over. “Put your number in. And your email. Probably cheaper, I suppose, to do email.”

            “Too right,” he says, and I feel sort of jittery.

            When he hands the phone back, I take a glance at his information, and say, “Oh, you must be joking.” His email handle is ccsnitch80.

            “What’s yours?” Harry says defensively.

            “It’s not ridiculous, that’s for damned sure.” I put my phone away. “So I’ll—send you an email, and we’ll sort things.”

            “Yeah, all right.” Harry hesitates, then asks, “Would it be okay if I just—emailed to talk sometimes? As it turns out—to the shock of the entire world, Malfoy—you’re actually quite easy to talk to.”

            “It’s fine, but only if you continue to overwhelm me with heartfelt compliments like that. I’m touched.” I point to the left side of my chest. “Right here.”

            He grins, lopsided, and steps away from me, saying, “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

            I shrug, unfazed. “Inbred and evil. What else were you expecting?”

            He laughs again, casting me one last look over his shoulder before walking into the station.

            Okay. Okay, so I…did that.

            What exactly did I just do?


	27. Chapter 27

I spotted him sitting on the bench, slouched down low, arms firmly crossed. He was doing his best to look defiant, but instead he just looked like a boy trying to be a man, and fooling no one in the process.

            I was attempting to keep my temper in check, only it was a close thing. I was furious. Beyond, in point of fact. It was a conscious effort to keep my fists unfurled by my side. I wanted to tug off my black tie and start striking him with it.

            _He’s sixteen_ , I reminded himself.

            _That just means he’s a fool_.

            I dropped down besides Ty, staring at the wall across from us. The hallway was empty save for us two, though I could hear voices on the other side of the door. On the way over, I had gone through so many different things I wanted to say. I had worked out speeches, harangues, veritable sermons in which I lit up one side of him, then took a strip down the other. Now they all just sort of muddled together.

            I said, “Why?”

            From my peripheral vision, I saw him shrug. “Just happened.”

            I turned to look at him. His left eye was swollen shut. His hands were bruised around the knuckles, and his dress shirt torn open at the collar, splashed with blood. “That’s an empty answer and you know it.”

            He shrugged again, his face a blank but his eyes twitching. “Don’t matter.”

            “Doesn’t matter, and yes it does.”

            “Too late now.”

            “Yes,” I snapped, and he flinched, “you’re damn right it’s too late now. All that—all that work, that pleading and talking you up to the dean, managing to schedule that lunch—and this is how you—“ I stopped talking, too livid to continue. I sat back against the wall, shaking my head.

            After a moment, Ty said, “What? This is how I repay you?”

            “Yes,” I said, turning back to him. “This is—this is the definition of why I’ve spent most of my life not giving a fuck about people. You put in the effort, you try to do your best, try to help someone out, and they go and fuck it all up, just because they can. This is exactly why I shouldn’t give a shit. Thank you for that, Ty. Fucking splendid.”

            I crossed my own arms, in a huff. Grimacing, Ty said, “You don’t want to be here—go. Nobody asked you to be here.”

            “I don’t _understand_ ,” I said, perplexed. “I spoke to you—not four hours ago. You were excited about this, about meeting her. You told me you wanted that opportunity. Was that just—was it pretend? Were you just saying what I wanted to hear?”

            “Does it matter?”

            “Yes! It matters!” The voices on the other side of the door quieted a moment. I sniffed, ignoring the urge to gnaw my lip bloody. “What changed so goddamn much in four hours that we’re here instead of Manhattan, celebrating the fact that you managed to get a lunch with one of the deans of one of the best schools in the entire country? What changed?”

            “Nothing changed, it just—“

            Pointing at him, I said, “If you say, ‘it just happened’ one more time, I swear to God—“ I curled my hands into fists. _You can’t_ crucio _a teenager for being an prick, Draco. No matter the circumstances, it would not go over well_.

            “Rick needed me,” Ty said quietly.

            “For what?”

            “Just—just a thing. It—it got out of hand. I thought I was only gonna be fifteen minutes. That’s what he said.”

            “I bet he did,” I muttered.

            “What’s that mean?”

            “It means he did everything he could to keep you from something good, seeing as he’s a selfish prat—“

            “Don’t talk about him like that—“

            “Why shouldn’t I? He’s your friend? Where is he, then?”

            Miserable, Ty hunched his large body further in on itself. “He had to bounce. He’s got a record and I don’t. It’s cool—“

            “It is not. It is in no way cool—Jesus, do you not see that he deliberately sabotaged you? This supposed friend of yours—“

            Ty burst out, “Back off! You don’t know him! You don’t know me! Maybe I don’t want to—maybe I don’t want to go anywhere. Maybe I don’t want to go to school!”

            “Yes you do.”

            “Maybe I don’t want to spend the rest of my life being someone’s house nigger. You ever think of that?”

            “So you’d prefer the fields?”

            He stared at me. “What’d you say to me?”

            “If you’re thinking of it in those terms, then those are your choices. If you think that trying to get an education, to leave this place, that makes you a traitor, that makes you a house slave, and you’d prefer to not do that, then the only choice you’ve got is to be a field slave. If you insist on thinking in binary states. You don’t want to go to university? Don’t want to ever leave the same five blocks the rest of your life? Fine. Stay here, get drunk, have kids too early that you can’t fucking take care of, and pick cotton. I can’t be arsed.”

            I pushed myself to my feet, and Ty said, all bravado, “Fine. Go. I told you—I don’t need you.”

            “Yes you do, you stupid bastard,” I said, walking away.

 

A half hour after that, I was on Roderick’s front step. I knocked on the door.

            A few moments went by, then I heard footsteps. The curtain pulled back an inch, then he ducked away. Unimpressed, I said, “I’ve seen you now. It’s not like you can hide.”

            I had to wait a couple more seconds, then he opened the door. Unlike Ty, Roderick managed to accurately convey not giving a shit. “What?”

            His hands were puffy and bruised as well, but he clearly hadn’t taken as much damage as Ty. I hated him in that moment. Selfish, stupid child. I understood him far more than I would have liked.

            “I’ve come to ask you something.”

            “Ask me what?”

            I looked at him, and said, “You’re dead weight. And you’re dragging Ty down with you. If you’re a man, instead of a boy, you’ll stop it and let him loose.”

            That startled him. “Man, whatchu saying to me—“

            “You heard me. I’m being honest, because coddling you isn’t going to do anything. You don’t like that Ty is clever enough to go onto a good school, that he’s going to leave you behind, so you’re doing everything you can to make sure he stays. Like fucking up his meeting today.”

            “Dawg, you ain’t—“

            Raising my voice, I said, “I did not ask you to speak!” I heard my father, and I hated it, but I knew what to use and what to set aside. Roderick pulled back an inch, looking momentarily uncertain. “We both know you’ll be lucky to graduate high school. You’re smart but you’re lazy, and you’ll never make anything of yourself. That’s just facts. This isn’t reverse psychology, trying to get you to pull yourself up, wanting you to prove me wrong. You going nowhere is a fact. Ty, however, has opportunities that you will never dream of.”

            He looked shaken, but quickly switched to anger. “So what, you only back the ones who’re gonna do something? Leave the rest of us behind?”

            “No, you imbecile, we’re both the ones who are left behind.” I managed to catch him off guard again, and with teenagers sometimes that’s the best you can do. “I don’t leave here. You don’t leave here. We are not special. We are here to lift up the people who are. We’re not the main characters in the story, we’re the supporting players. We make the difficult choices so that the people who _are_ special get to fulfill their potential. We don’t have the luxury of selfishness. You want your best friend to always be around? Grow up. You’re not a child anymore, and you need to stop behaving like one. Be a man. Be a real friend, and get that other idiot to be the person he’s supposed to be, instead of you. Instead of me.” I shook my head at him, and said, “For God’s sake, Roderick—you pull a stunt like this again, he could end up dead. He needs to get the hell out of here. Make him.”

            I turned and left, and he didn’t say a word.

 

“Are you checking me out?”

            I snort so hard that it actually hurts my sinuses. Touching the side of my nose, I whine, “Ow. That was uncalled for, young man.”

            Ty grins. “For real. You can’t keep your eyes off me.”

            “That’s because I can’t believe how nicely you clean up. I keep looking at you and thinking, is that the same young man whose trousers kept actually dropping to his knees because he was intent on sagging them so low?”

            Laughing, Ty says, “That, admittedly, was an art form I never quite mastered. Rick was always way better at that.”

            “Preternatural,” I agree. “His arse was always completely out, but his trousers never fell off.”

            Ty leans over. “You ask him, he’ll tell you it’s because they always caught on his big dick.”

            Gagging, I say, “I didn’t need to know that.”

            We’re on the bus to Riker’s. Almost there. And it is true—I can’t stop looking at Ty. I just want to brush off his shoulder. He’s wearing a lilac coloured dress shirt with a silver tie, looking impossibly handsome. The most successful of all my boys.

            I yawn, and he says, “You get much sleep?”

            “Some,” I say. I don’t admit that the nightmares were horrendous. I don’t admit all the things Evan said to me in dreams. “Tell me about your office again.”

            With a grin, Ty says, “I just told you about it. Like twenty minutes ago. Are you so out of it you didn’t hear me?”

            “I heard you.” I lean forward, crossing my arms on the seat in front of me, and I rest my head on them. “Tell me again.”

            “It’s big and bright. The whole wall behind me is a window. If I step right up close to it, I can just see through the buildings to the river. I can see the bridge.”

            “What colour are the walls?”

            “White. But I put up some really dope prints I got in Oxford. Friend of mine, dated this Nigerian girl who makes the most beautiful pictures. Shit, I should have gotten you one.”

            “Maybe I’ll just come visit you sometime.”

            “I am booking clients.”

            “Yeah, there’s no conflict of interest there.” He’s giving me a look, and I say, “What?”

            Ty puts his tongue to the top of his teeth. “You ever been to see a therapist?”

            Pushing myself back, I groan, “Don’t you start with me.”

            “That just tells me other people have said it. Which tells me you should probably think about it.”

            “Life is short,” I say, “and I’m too busy for that.”

            “If someone told you they were too busy to take care of themselves, what would you tell them?”

            “I’d say I’m a special case who will never tire and who has the mental fortitude of Mount Rushmore. And that you were far easier to handle when you were fifteen.”

            “That’s a lie.”

            “The last bit is. You were painful sometimes at fifteen.”

            We get to the prison, and we go through a process that I am well acquainted with by now. The line to get inside—at least I have Ty to keep me company this time, unlike usual—the first of the amnesty boxes to drop off any drugs or contraband material, no questions asked. All my years coming here, I could count on both hands the number of times I’ve seen anyone use the three that we’ll come across before finally getting to Roderick. We’re put through the x-ray and metal detector, fill out our forms, then wait about a half an hour. It’s not as long a wait as I sometimes have. It’s the rare occasion that I’m visiting in the daytime instead of the evening.

            We get our cards stamped, then we’re bused to the housing unit, and we go through another x-ray and metal detector, before getting our cards stamped again. I didn’t put a single thing in my pockets, so I don’t need the locker today, but Ty does. He’s not as used to this as I am. I can see that the whole thing makes him nervous, though he hides it well.

            Final check—open our mouths, lift our tongues. Show there’s no contraband hiding in our trousers. I get through before Ty does—he’s irritated when he finally gets through—then we go to sit in the last waiting room. It’s a half hour of me prompting him to tell me about Oxford, then we’re at last called in to see Roderick.

            After another few minutes at the table, he’s called in. We stand up, and he has a big grin on his face. “Hello, my brother,” he says, holding out his arms.

            Ty hugs him, clapping him on the back. “What’s up, man.”

            Stepping back, Roderick pats him teasingly on the chest. “Look at you all dressed up. Swear you only do that for Draco.”

            Ty rolls his eyes, and I frown. I give Roderick a hug—good God, it’s like he wants to crack my ribs—then say to Ty, “Have you already been?”

            “Just a short visit,” Ty says, sitting down.

            I sit down beside him, shaking my head. “He said he was going to wait,” I tell Roderick.

            “Draco, man, he’d already been to see me by then,” Roderick replies. I glance at Ty in consternation, and he shrugs, small smile on his face. Folding his arms on the table, Roderick grins. “Look at us three. Dream team, back together.”

            “Yes, the circumstances are obviously ideal,” I snort, and Ty gives me a quick glare. Roderick just laughs. We joke about him being in prison a lot. Ty’s just not used to it. I suddenly remember. “Oh shit. I had a book for you, and I completely forgot—“

            Shaking his head, Roderick says, “Chill, Dre. Not like I’m going anywhere.”

            “Fuck,” I mutter, propping my head on my hand. “Sorry, this week has been—well.” I force myself to straighten, putting on a smile. “Here I thought I was going to be here while you caught up and you’ve gone and done that without me.”

            “Not everything,” Ty says.

            “Did you hear what this fool said to me when he came to visit?” Roderick says.

            “Well, no, because you both led me to believe that this would be the first he was seeing you in a year—“

            “He says he’s bisexual. Known him since we were little kids, and now he tells me. Did you know this?”

            “Jesus,” Ty sighs.

            “Oh, absolutely,” I answer with a straight face. “We all of us have that mystical gaydar you’ve heard so much about, and I can instantly spot anyone with the faintest trace of queer upon them. No, don’t be a moron.”

            Roderick looks between us and lets out a meaningful, “Mm hmm.”

            Ty drops his head back, and I laugh. “Please. Of all the things I’ve said and done in life, that would never be one of them. So? What have you been up to? More tennis?”

            “Hockey,” Roderick says. “I’m about hockey now.”

            “You what?” Ty interjects.

            “Yeah, man. You know. Ice rink. Puck.” Roderick pretends like he’s holding something. “That stick thing.”

            “You been watching hockey?”

            “No, I been playing it. I’ve moved on from my time on the prison tennis team.”

            Realizing he’s been played, Ty rolls his eyes and mutters good naturedly, “Fuck the both of you.”

            “Mm hmm,” Roderick says again.

 

A few seconds pass before I realize my name has been said. Guiltily, I lift my head off my hand. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, what was that?”

            Ty and Roderick glance at each other. No, they don’t just glance at each other. A look passes between them that’s saying something, but I can’t tell what.

            “We was talking about Miss Holly,” Roderick says. I smile a little, knowing I shouldn’t. “Pondering whether she’s still as fine as the day we met her.”

            “We both say yes,” Ty adds.

            I sit back, crossing my arms. “Miss Holly is now Mrs. Holly-Germusch, and I believe she’s about six months pregnant with her second child.”

            “Damn,” Roderick sighs. “She went and got herself a husband. Here I was holding out hope.”

            “You would have been holding out until the end of time, seeing as she went and got herself a wife.”

            After a second, they both crack up. I bite into my lip, and give Ty a little kick so that he doesn’t laugh too hard and draw the guards’ attention. I don’t want them to pull Roderick out of here early.

            Once Roderick gets himself under control, he says, “Well, shit.”

            “I think that might be a little biphobic of you,” Ty says to me. “How do you know she’s a lesbian?”

            “Because she literally used the words ‘I’m a lesbian,’ with me once,” I reply. “Don’t play the political correctness game with me, Ty. It will end poorly for you.” I have to put my fist up to my mouth as I stifle a yawn. “Sorry. I’m awake.”

            They look at each other again. Roderick turns to me, and says, “Hey—what’s your schedule look like next week?”

            I feel myself getting smaller. “Oh—Christ only knows. I’ll be back to working strange hours at the shop. My sessions with the boys. Derrell was making noise about giving me two more sophomores this year, and God only knows what the freshmen class will look like. There’s that thing with the mayor’s office that Joshua should take care of himself but he’ll give it to me because I don’t take no for an answer. There’s Us. He’s going to have a hell of a time this year after what’s happened. The other boys too, the ones who knew Evan. The usual. And the unusual.”

            Just thinking about it makes me want to lay down and hide. That’s not the done thing, however. I’ll do it, I’ll do it all, same as I always have. Yesterday—that was a reprieve. Now it’s back to real life.

            “When’s the last time you had a vacation?”

            I bark. “Vacation? What, are you kidding? We’ve just come back from summer vacation. Jason’s given me the week off work. School started today. I’ll be starting up sessions again on Friday. Okay—“ I point between the two of them. “Why the hell do you keep looking at one another like that? Don’t think that I’ve not noticed.”

            “Look—“ Ty starts to say.

            Roderick cuts him off. “We were talking.”

            “About what?” I say, voice going low and threatening.

            “About you, and this comes from a place of love, man. You know we both love you, right?”

            “That’s touching, but why were you talking about me behind my back?” I get a peculiar feeling. Raising my brow, I say frostily, “Why do I have the feeling I’ve been set up?”

            “I suppose you have,” Ty says.

            “This is like—a mini intervention,” Roderick says.

            “For _what_?” I say, remembering at the last moment to lower my voice.

            “Dude, from the moment I met you, you’ve been going balls out with everything. You never stop. That’s not good for you, man.”

            “I’m sorry, you’ve been meeting behind my back to discuss my mental health?”

            “I been talking to Ty because I’ve been kind of worried about you, and he knows about these things.”

            I lift a hand. “No offense, Ty, but you are twenty three years old, and not even a fully accredited psychologist yet, so you should bloody know better about handing out diagnoses over the phone.”

            “It wasn’t like that—“ Ty tries to say.

            “Then what’s it like?”

            “What about taking a real break?” Roderick suggests. “An actual break. Not just not working the one job for a couple days but still doing everything else.”

            “I am really curious as to where this is all coming from.”

            “It’s coming from—you’re my friend. You’ve been looking out for me all these years, you don’t think I’d do the same for you? You’ve been doing the exact same thing since we met you—“

            “Because I’m good at what I do,” I hiss.

            “No one’s saying otherwise,” Ty says quickly.

            Roderick leans forward, dropping his voice. “You’ve been doing the same thing for eight years, man. You do a good job, but—first, you need to take a goddamn step back and get some rest. You look like death right now. Second, you need to think about doing something more with your life.”

            I lean forward as well, meeting his eyes. “ _I_ …need to do more…with _my_ life?” I threaten.

            “I know where I am,” Roderick says stubbornly. “I know where I ain’t going. I stay, and I make sure the people who are special get the opportunities they deserve.”

            Dropping back in my seat, I mutter, “Oh, don’t even—“

            “Dude. You served your time. Whatever it is you’re trying to make up for, you’ve done it.”

            “Please stop.”

            “You don’t do anybody any favours by grinding yourself down, staying in one place. You wouldn’t let someone do that to themselves. I ain’t letting you do that to yourself.”

            “So—so what? I just leave? Leave my boys? Are you high?”

            “I’m not even saying leave. I’m saying—take a leave of absence.”

            I start to laugh. This is completely ridiculous. “You don’t understand.”

            “Don’t understand what?” Roderick challenges. “You think there’s nobody who could take your place?”

            “You’re damned right. There’s not a ton of people out there jumping up and down to put in that kind of time, that kind of commitment, with a bunch of stone stubborn teenage boys who think they know better than everyone else. I don’t get to go anywhere, because there isn’t anyone who’d be willing to take over.”

            “I would,” Ty says.

            Blinking, I turn to stare at him. “Beg pardon?”

            He takes a breath, then says levelly, “I’d—if you decided that you wanted to take some time, I’d really—I would really, really like to work with the boys.”

            They have ambushed me. This is what has happened. “Let me—get this straight. You get some schooling under your belt, and all of a sudden you think you’re qualified to take over from me.”

            “Draco—I want to have the opportunity to do for people what you did for me—“

            “There’s plenty of people who need help, you don’t need to take _my_ job—“

            “And I also want to help you. I mean—just seeing you these last few days—you need a break.” Ty raises his shoulders. “Aren’t you tired?”

            I turn in my seat, looking him dead on. “Is this your subtle way of saying that if I was better at my job, then maybe one of my boys would still be alive?”

            He leans back, looking repulsed, saying, “Jesus, no,” as Roderick says, “It ain’t like that—“

            “Because it seems very much like that. I don’t hear my colleagues telling me that I should step back. They seem to think I did the best that I could with him, so how dare you—“

            “We’re not saying that,” Ty insists, strained. “We are in no way saying that, at all—“

            “Excuse me,” I say, getting up and walking away. It’s not like either of them can run after me.

 

I just walk for a few blocks after getting off the bus, until I find a spot of grass, and I sit down.

            Perhaps I overreacted. Or perhaps I didn’t. I don’t know.

            I lay back, and gaze up at the sky. It’s hot, but overcast. Maybe it will rain. In the meantime, it feels muggy and disgusting, and part of me just wants to go home and have a cold shower.

            I stay here a while, down on the ground, until I feel like I’m edging into self-pity territory, and that will never stand. So I get out my phone and text Us.

            His reply is swift and sounds eager for company. Good. Someone who thinks I’m helpful.

 

“Hey,” Us says, letting me into the house.

            It’s spotless, as always. Mrs. Glenn puts up with plenty from Us, but one thing she does not abide is mess. “How was school?” I ask, stepping out of my shoes.

            He sighs. He doesn’t have to say more than that right now. “You want to have some sodas? Sit on the back step?”

            “That sounds absolutely ideal,” I reply honestly.

            I go sit out back. Their little house looks out on fences and concrete. The small bit of grass that they do have is yellow from the summer’s unrelenting heat.

            Us comes out with two root beers, handing one to me, then sits down in the other lawn chair. His brow is furrowed, and he worries at the label on the bottle.

            “So Elysha was off yesterday?”

            “Yeah,” he says, grateful for the prompt. “Yeah, that was—“ He rolls his eyes. “All kinds of messed up.”

            “Messed up bad or just messed up strange?”

            “Strange. She was doing all this stuff…this last month. Going to places I ain’t ever heard of, buying things that—that are out of fairy stories.” He kicks at the ground. “If I hadn’t been such a punk ass bitch I could have talked to you about it.”

            “I’m here now. You can tell me all about it.”

            “She—she had to buy a _wand_. Like an actual magic wand. Like you got.”

            “Like I have.”

            “Are you gonna be on my balls about my grammar today?”

            “I’ll be on your balls about your grammar every day.”

            “She had to buy these funny clothes. They looked stupid as hell.”

            “Robes?”

            “Yeah. I don’t like my clothes tight, but this was just—not functional.” I laugh at that, and Us shakes his head. “She had to buy a cauldron. A _cauldron_. It was messed _up_. Did—you have to do all that stuff?”

            “Of course. It’s just like buying school supplies. Tell me, do they use parchment or notebooks at Ilvormorny?”

            “Parchment?” Us repeats incredulously.

            “Notebooks, then. Good. Much more practical. Did you go with her when she caught the train?”

            “Yeah. Yeah, that was—I’ve only ever been to Grand Central once before, but—you know, she had to walk through a wall to get her platform? She disappeared. Right in front of me.”

            “Must have been very strange,” I say levelly.

            “Dude, I know when you’re making fun of me.”

            “I’m not making fun. I’m just—we come from very different cultures. What sounds insane to you sounds perfectly reasonable to me. Was she excited to go?”

            His jaw twitches. “No,” Us says after a moment. “No, she—she wanted to stay at school. With her friends. She asked me to take her home.”

            “What did you say?”

            “Some bullshit. That she was going to make new friends, and things were gonna be better for her because she’d be meeting other people like her.”

            “It might have felt like bullshit saying it, but it isn’t.” I take a sip of my drink. “Everything will be different for her now. She’ll meet so many people…learn so many things….”

            Make enemies. Take sides. Miss the point. That’s what magics do, after all. I have no idea if they still sort houses at Ilvormorny. I sure as hell hope not.

            I wonder what Harry would say to a little girl going off to school, after just finding out that she’s a witch. He’d know all about it. He would know the right thing to say.

            Well, hypothetically. I’m not sure if he ever plans on the right thing to say or if it just randomly pops out of his mouth from time to time.

            I’m smiling without realizing it. I make it go away. That was just a day. A day away from all of this. A day escaping all my problems.

            Only he’s coming back. He’s going to come back. I asked and he said yes. He looked so pleased that I asked.

            “Dre?”

            I sigh. “Sorry, that’s the second time I’ve wandered off today in my own head. What were you saying?”

            “I wasn’t saying anything. You just looked kind of…not here.”

            “Suppose I wasn’t.” I tap my foot on the ground, then say, “I’ve a thing to ask you, and I want to preface it by saying that I’ve made no plans, that I’m not decided on anything. Only it was suggested I do something, and I want your opinion, as one of the boys.”

            Us raises a brow. “Shoot.”      

            “If I…took a leave of absence…from the center….would you feel that I was abandoning you?”

            He stares at me, then says, “Why the hell did someone suggest that to you?” His nostrils flare. “Did somebody try and pin Evan on you? Because that’s _fucked_ —“

            Lifting a hand, I say, “Calm down. And thank you for saying it. I thought I was overreacting. No. No, I _was_ overreacting. They weren’t saying that. I don’t think. They’re good people, they just—struck a nerve is all.” I pull up my legs, resting them on the railing. “It’s just…some of my friends suggested it, is all, and I got upset, and now I suppose I have to actually look the thing in the face. If I got that upset about it, there’s obviously a reason.”

            “Do—you want to go?”

            “No,” I say. “And yes.”

            “Like you’d let me get away with that answer.”

            “I’d not just leave all of you. I wouldn’t do that. If you needed me, you’d have my number. Morning, noon, or night, you would be able to get in touch with me. All of you. Only—“ I grimace. “The idea of taking on anything more right now—if I stay there, there will be more boys. There’s always more. Starting over again. Same as I have for years and years now. Never any thinking about what I could do differently. Jesus, why am I saying this to you? You’re sixteen, I shouldn’t be—“

            “No,” Us says firmly. “No, you can—you can talk to me.”

            I smile crookedly. “That’s not your job.”

            “So what?”

            “There’s someone who wants to take over for me for a while.”

            “Who?”

            “Tyrell Martin.”

            “What, your prodigal son?”

            “Yeah. He’s the one who suggested it.”

            “Fuck him. I don’t know him.”

            “You know, that attitude towards change is not one you want to have.”

            “So what, he goes to school for a couple years and thinks he can just take over, because you don’t have a degree or some shit?”

            “Possibly. Or maybe he’s actually just concerned about me.”

            “Is…there reason to be concerned?” It sounds so funny coming from him. It’s an adult conversation, almost a conversation of equals, and he’s trying very hard.

            “I’m tired,” I admit quietly. “I’ve not had more than a few days off in all the years I’ve lived here. Always trying to…atone. To make up for things. And honestly, I probably would have gone on a few more years without even thinking about it, until I completely burned out.”

            “Like Principal Myers.”

            “Watch your mouth,” I warn. “But this past week…Evan. I thought…I really thought I’d gotten through to him. But I hadn’t. Maybe if…maybe someone who actually has trained for this kind of thing would have caught it.”

            “To hell with that. You’re not gonna let me blame myself, I’m sure as hell not letting you blame yourself.”

            “What _would_ you think?” I ask him. “If I was gone a few months. Just from the center. I’d still see you—I’d still bother the living shit out of you, to be honest. I intend to have you accepted to a decent university in a few months. I wouldn’t be leaving you or any of the others. I’d just be stepping back from—the burden of responsibility, I suppose. That sounds remarkably chickenshit, doesn’t it.”

            To his credit, Us thinks about it for a long moment. “I think…I think you done right by me and a lot of people. And if you’re not just—running away, not ever coming back—then I think we’d all be cool. If that’s what you wanted.”

            “I’m not even sure if it is.”

            “Man, if I had the chance to just…if I could leave school for a while, and just have the time to think, to try and work out everything that happened. To try and get right by that—I’d take it. Are you kidding me? How many years you been doing this? Eight?”

            “Yes.”

            “And how many—how many of us have died?”

            “Five,” I say quietly.

            “I think…I think if you were gone for a little while, but if you were still sort of around…we’d be cool. You got our back. We got yours.”

            I shake myself off. “Enough of this. I can’t expect a teenager to give me benediction for abandoning my vocation.”

            Us is determined. “If I could take a holiday right now—you’re damn skippy I’d take it.”

            I frown, and wrap an arm around myself. It’s just a thought, is all. It’s just a notion.

 

My fingers pause over the keyboard a moment. I glance out the window, at the fading light.

            Oh, to hell with it.

            ‘Dear Harry: Hoping you had a safe and uneventful journey home. By now you should have worked out the worst of the dizziness, one would hope.’

            I look at the words on the screen, and give my head a shake.

            ‘To be honest, Harry, I hate small talk. Especially in correspondence. It’s a skill I learned by necessity—one of the few less malicious requirements of my upbringing—but I can’t stand it.

            ‘That being said, I suppose I have to come up with something more important to tell you. And here it is: I think I am going to stop my work with my boys.’


	28. Chapter 28

_…and once I’d stormed out of the prison in a huff (yes, yes, only I would storm out of a prison in a huff), I actually started to think about it. After talking to Us, who was embarrassingly mature after the stunt I had pulled in front of my friends, I found myself thinking about it more and more. And now I think that I’ve decided. I didn’t decide until I actually sat down and started writing this, actually._

_I don’t know that I shall go forever. A few months, perhaps. Maybe until the new year. People have been, in their subtle way, trying to move me on for the last few years, only I’ve been content to stay in place. I’m not sure anyone can blame me—this is the first time in my life that things have been stable and good—but now that I think about it I have to wonder if I’m just afraid of doing anything else. Safety can be a goal, but it can also be a cage. If I step back a little, maybe I will get some perspective, instead of always focusing on the next crisis._

_I want to be clear, I’m not abandoning my boys. They’ll all be able to get hold of me, and if they need me I’ll have apparated to them about two minutes later. I’m just removing myself from the institution. And half my revenue stream, of course. Let’s not kid ourselves, I don’t need to work a day in my life if I don’t want to._

_However, I do want to. I’ll talk to Jason about seeing if he’ll let me take full time hours at the shop. He is a massive pushover, and basically lets me do as I please. Any other boss and I would have been out on my pointy white arse years ago. It probably also helps that he’s all wide eyed and giddy over his new man these days. It’s a good time to ask Father Christmas for presents._

_The truth is that I’m tired. I came into my place at the center because I was working on my karma, and I’ve done many good things over the last few years. Part of me thinks that I should never stop, that I have a lifetime of sins to pay for. The other part says to stop being so bloody dramatic. That it’s not a crime to take some time to figure out what I want to do next. No matter what, I am certain I will end up either back with my boys or doing something similar. A life of pure selfishness doesn’t really appeal to me. These days, at least._

_No idea why I’m telling you this, other than I suppose I became used to telling you things over the last few months, and right now anyone I spoke to would have an opinion about what I should do. You, however, are an abstract notion at the moment, on the other side of a computer across an ocean. Right now you’re only a screen, and I’ve no idea if I’ll send this or if you’re merely going to get a few lines of dreaded small talk._

_To hell with it, I’m sending you the whole thing. I don’t expect you to reply to anything besides the small talk, so I suppose your reply, if you are the kind of person to reply quickly—which I doubt—will perhaps only be two lines long. No concern. Hope you’re well, and that you’ve not blown your eyebrows off since returning home._

_Draco_

**Dear Draco,**

**Weather is fine, the trip on the Floo was terrible, house still in one piece, and eyebrows still in place. Also, you should be getting this when you wake up, so keep your opinions about how quickly I reply to letters to yourself, you cheeky bastard.**

**Must admit, was a little surprised to hear you say that you’ve decided to stop your work with the boys for now. I’ve just tried ten different ways to say this without coming off a complete prat, but the truth is that you light up when you talk about them. It seems like the most important thing that you have going for you.**

**But thinking about it, I think it makes sense. Did you say you’ve not had any time off since you came to America? I feel embarrassed now. I have no job (while you have two) and I go on holidays at least twice a year. That’s a lie, it’s usually more like three or four.**

**So this might sound a little like Molly Weasley talking, but it is probably good that you take some time to think about what you want to do. Or to just go on a trip somewhere—have you thought about leaving the shop for a while as well? I hear that there are more cities in America than just New York. You could actually go see one. (And buy terrible souvenirs.)**

**It’s actually a bit of a relief that you started things off by talking about something serious. I would have just made a fool of myself with small talk. I’ve never been much at correspondence besides a few sentences, and I would have definitely been stuck after, ‘All is well with me, what’s new with you?’**

**I did also want to say that I had a really excellent time in New York. Thank you for being such a good host, though I showed up out of nowhere and at probably the worst possible time. I still think it’s funny that I’ve slept on your sofa. Is it strange that even now I find it odd that we’re not at each other’s throats? Sometimes I actually think, “I slept on Draco Malfoy’s sofa.” With your full name and everything. Is that odd or is it just me?**

**How is your tattoo? How long is it until it heals? Do you help it along or are you stubborn? How long do you usually wait between getting tattoos?**

**I’m sure you’re shocked that I haven’t spent most of this message talking about me (ha ha) but the truth of it is that NOTHING is happening. I got home and nothing was going on. At least in my life. I’ve the wands and that, but nothing else that’s just mine. Does that make sense? (Also, do you have any hobbies? I don’t know that I’ve ever asked.) Everyone else has someone, or a job, and I know that not having that is on me (before you start on me about that) but I forgot how quiet things are here until I got home. Especially after New York, things seem very quiet. I’ll be at Ron and Hermione’s tomorrow for dinner, but that’s all my plans for the next little while. I know. Pathetic.**

**Now that I’ve complained about my life, I guess I’ve done my duty. I almost put one of those tongue sticking out emoticons in but I wondered if you wouldn’t gag a little over it. So I’ve left well enough alone.**

**Hope you are well, and all my best. Harry.**

_Dear Harry,_

_Weather is not fine here—it is so hot that I want to hide in my apartment forever where I can have all the cooling charms and just lounge about in my knickers. I’m sure you needed that image. You’re welcome._

_In other news, I’ve gone on leave. I did it. I can’t believe I bloody did it, but I did. I’m still in a bit of shock about it. It was only two days ago that Ty and Roderick even suggested it to me and now I’m out of a job. For the time being._

_I apologized to Ty. He was very kind about the whole thing. He knows and I know that I’m a bit of a mess since Evan’s death, and we were able to move past my histrionics very quickly. I spent a good solid hour interrogating him about why he wanted to do this, what he would do, what it would mean for him, and I’m certainly worried, but the fact of the matter is, he’s had five years of psychology training, and I had zero years of any training whatsoever when I started. He’s also been where the boys are, in ways that I can’t ever imagine. I’ve seen what it’s like to be them, but frankly it’s not like I’ll ever be able to say, “Yes, when I was a young black man, I felt the same way.”_

_I went in to tell Joshua_ _—he’s the head of the center, I’ve told you about him—and he almost fell over and died. I don’t know that I could deal with the two deaths in one week, so it’s a relief he didn’t pop off. He started stuttering, and saying that it was understandable if I needed some time after Evan, and obviously trying not to outright panic. I got to the point about Ty very quickly so that he didn’t collapse. He was most relieved, though I can tell he’s now facing the fact that he’ll have to call donors instead of me. Best of luck, Joshua._

_More difficult was the boys. I gathered them up and talked with them for a long while. I feel like a selfish prick, stepping away right now, but I do think it might be the best thing. Someone who has some distance might be the best person to help with their schoolwork. They know that they can call or text me whenever they need, and that I’ll probably be more available to them now that I’m not on a set schedule with the center._

_Us was helpful with all that. Much as he could be. It turns out no one is really speaking to him at the moment, certainly not among the boys. They’re convinced he killed Evan, or at least was the instigating factor in his death. Victor thinks that Us lied about Evan’s journals, and is convinced Evan would have never hurt anyone, that he killed himself from embarrassment and not wanting to face the people at school. I don’t know what to say to them besides that things are much more complicated, that it’s all shades of grey, and that no one is to blame. Teenage boys, though—always convinced that they’re right._

_Us has texted me every day. He feels isolated. I’m going to have to keep my eyes on him, no matter what, so I don’t see myself leaving the city any time soon, at least not until some of this blows over. I fully intend to get that boy through this school year and into a decent college next year at the very least. He’ll be seventeen very soon, and I find that it puts me out in cold sweats, that he’d be thought of as a man in the magical world._

_Derrell is slightly livid with me at the moment. I didn’t discuss any of this with him before making my decision and going to Joshua. I rather thought that if I talked to him, he’d talk me out of it. I’ve modeled my life after his in some ways. He’s taken no time off since taking the job as principal, and he’s definitely trying to work himself into an early grave. I’ve always admired his dedication, but I don’t know that I can live up to it. He went so far as to say that I wasn’t thinking clearly because of Evan, and I had to step away, because that’s not a discussion I want to have with him right now._

_In less dramatic news, answers to your questions: I don’t think it’s odd that you think of it as ‘sleeping on Draco Malfoy’s sofa.’ I was sitting on the couch yesterday and thought, ‘Harry Potter slept here.’ So I think we’re much in the same boat. A lifetime of thinking of one another in certain terms—attaching a bit of a myth to one another—will not so easily disappear._

_I don’t have any hobbies, besides my tattoos. Maybe this is something I will have to investigate with the time I suddenly have on my hands. I do like to read a great deal—does that count as a hobby? Perhaps I shall take up crochet._

_And my tattoo is doing quite well. I don’t help it along at all, because I work with the person who actually does my tattoos, and Jason will want to look at it as it goes along. He would notice if it was miraculously healed within the day. It will be about a month before it heals. In a few days it will start to itch like mad and scab, which is always incredibly attractive, but right now it’s merely in the open wound phase. Sounds appealing, doesn’t it?_

_I have at last received warning from my mother about your inquiries as to my whereabouts. It only took a week. She refuses to use a telephone, or God forbid a computer. I swear, if anything really important happens, I will in fact be the last to hear about it. Her letter was very typical. Anyone else would have read it and thought she was the most restrained human on the face of the planet. I, however, being attuned to my mother’s moods, could tell that she was most distressed. What did you say to her? As it stands, I’ve sent her a reply—by courier—so she will know that I’m fine._

_How are you fairing? What ridiculous experiments are you getting up to with your wands? Eyebrows still on your face?_

_Draco_

_P.S. Where did you put your Statue of Liberty?_

**Dear Draco,**

**Weather very English today. Statue of Liberty is sitting on the windowsill looking out at the rain and wondering what in the hell she’s gotten herself into.**

**I apologize if I frightened your mother. I admit, I was in a bit of a state when I saw her. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I did get ever so slightly upset with her when she wouldn’t tell me where you were.**

**Oh, fuck it. You’ve been honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. I meant to find you, she knew where you were and wouldn’t tell me, so I got a bit cross with her. I believe I said that she’d not changed in all the years since I last saw her, that she’d rather be a block of ice for posterity instead of making sure her own son was safe.**

**Whoops?**

_Harry—_

_Do you not feel that was ‘ever so slightly’ melodramatic?_

**Dear Draco,**

**Possibly.**

_Dear Harry,_

_I just came home from dinner with Jason and his boyfriend Alex. It was very strange, but in a pleasant sort of way._

_Alex is gorgeous. Not that Jason isn’t attractive and lovely and all that, but Alex is bordering on jaw dropping. Not only that, but the man is also kind, funny, and thinks Jason is about the best thing he’s ever seen. So I think we shall have to keep him. Also, he owns his own restaurant, so we will never go hungry. _

_I’m happy for Jason, but I’m honestly more relieved than anything. I had started to think he would die alone because he couldn’t have Derrell. Derrell, meanwhile, is now speaking to me again, and admits he might have behaved poorly when I gave him the news about my leave. I also admitted that I acted poorly by not speaking to him first. I should have, and I took the coward’s way out. Thank God he’s family. But Jason, I was talking about Jason. He was an absolute disaster these last few years without Derrell. I think that’s why he kept Freddy at the shop so long. He’s just intent on keeping everyone else around no matter the cost. These last few weeks he’s been his old self again, which I had almost forgotten. He smiles a lot more, and he is a much happier person._

_Next we shall have to find an appropriate boyfriend for Derrell. Should that be my new hobby? Matchmaking? God, just imagine…._

**…Also, imagined you in your new role as matchmaker, and have to admit—when I read that line I ended up with tea up my nose. So thank you for that.**

**Besides, would it not be a little like the blind leading the blind?....**

_Harry—_

_Is that how we’re going to phrase it? The blind leading the blind? Incidentally, how many boyfriends have you had in your lifetime? I’m dying to hear the answer to this one…._

**Draco,**

**Weather fair, will probably spend much of the day in the shed….**

_Harry,_

_Oh no. Don’t think for one second that I’m going to simply let you get away with that._

_Boyfriend? Ever? Yea or nay? Not letting this go._

_Draco_

**For fuck’s sake, Draco,**

**Fine. FINE. No boyfriend. Ever. No girlfriend in three years either. Satisfied?**

**Harry**

_Dear Harry,_

_Incredibly satisfied. Welcome to the club of the blind. Here’s your walking stick._

_Draco_

**Dear Draco,**

**I will beat you to death with that walking stick.**

****

_Dear Harry,_

_Someone’s a bit sensitive, isn’t he?_

_Kidding aside though—I know, that will be a difficult proposition for us—is it that you don’t want to date a man? I’ve a friend who likes sex with men but only dates women, so no judgment from me if that’s what you prefer._

_I know that when you finally let things slip, you said that the problem was that people knew. You never elaborated on that. Can I ask about that, or is it just not any of my business? I mean, clearly it’s none of my business, but I’m nosy. I suppose the question is if you’re comfortable discussing it._

_I already know the answer to that is no. So I suppose the question is will you discuss it anyways? Merely to satisfy my curiosity. If you do, you can ask me whatever you please. I remain an open book._

_Draco_

_PS: I’ve gotten another letter from my mother asking about you. Apparently I wasn’t able to put out that fire. Thank you ever so much for that._

**Dear Draco,**

**Weather is—kidding, kidding.**

**I have the feeling you’d actually let things slide if I said I didn’t want to discuss it, but to be honest you’ve caught me in a funny mood where I don’t mind talking about it. I’m almost certain I’ll regret writing this letter and sending it by tomorrow, but for now—once more onto the beach, as they say.**

**Like I told you, I didn’t even know I was interested in men until I ended up snogging one. After that, I was actually in a bit of shock. You think of all the people you know, yourself would be the one you know the most. But all of a sudden there was this large thing that I’d never even realized. I felt so bloody stupid about the whole thing. I started to look at other men, and I realized I had been for years, and never realized what I was doing. So I felt even more stupid about it. When I feel stupid about a thing, I end up not thinking about it.**

**It left me a bit shaken, to tell the truth, and when I came back to the Burrow I was obviously a bit off. Hermione, of course, managed to get the truth out of me, and she told Ron because I sure as hell couldn’t tell him. He didn’t know how to talk to me about it, so he told George—fucking George of all people—and George, he went to Charlie to figure out how to talk to me about it. And literally nothing in that family happens without Molly knowing about it, and if Molly knows, then Arthur knows, and within a day of me telling Hermione the whole family knew, which was not a thing that I wanted. I was mortified. Molly was actually happy—she said, “We were always so sad it never worked out between you and Ginny, but now we know why.” That was awful. Ginny and Nev had been together for years by then, and the idea that Molly was still sad about me not being with Ginny—I’ve never told anyone she said that. And it’s not the reason Ginny and I didn’t end up together! We dated as teenagers. Most people who date when they’re teenagers certainly don’t end up married. I think Ron and Hermione are the only ones I know who haven’t split up (and don’t you start with me). **

**And I had to say, I’m not gay. I’m not. Molly has a hard enough time with Charlie—I don’t think she really believes he can be bisexual, like you can only choose one or the other. When I told her that I wasn’t gay, she just had this sort of pitying look in her eyes, and said she’d love me no matter what, and when I told her that I liked girls, but sometimes I liked men as well, she got this look like, “Oh God, not another one who doesn’t know what he really wants.”**

**Honestly, I don’t know what I want. When I was young, I never thought about what I wanted to do as an adult, especially not when it came to being with another person. It made sense, in a way, that I would marry Ginny and officially be one of the Weasleys, like Hermione had done, but it also didn’t make sense, because that’s not the way life works, is it? I think I also didn’t expect to live long enough to have to think about dating or marrying someone or kids or any of that.**

**Once I was with Aeronwy, I did think a bit about marrying someone—her specifically, which is probably obvious—but after that bit at the end—to hell with it, when I slept with her brother—everything kind of turned on its head. Did I want to marry a woman? A man? Did I even want to be with someone else? What did I actually want? Not what people were telling me I should want, but what I actually wanted.**

**The answer I’ve come up with is what you’d call the coward’s way out, and that’s to have no answer. I don’t put labels on myself, and I don’t think about what’s going to come. If I meet someone I like, it would be nice, but I just come with an almost impossible amount of baggage. There’s no spell that would fix that. Even if I did meet someone and it seemed like it would work, I have no idea what that would even look like. Right now I don’t see myself ending up with anybody, but maybe that’s just stasis. (I had to look up the word, so button yourself.)**

**It’s not like I’m a monk or celibate or anything like that. I had a few nice days with that fellow in Thailand, and I went on a couple dates earlier this year with a solicitor from the closest town. She was lovely, but I just didn’t follow up on things, and it faded away. I’ve gone on a few dates with men before, to see if it was something I liked, but I had that same sort of doomed feeling I have when I go on dates with women, only there was the added pressure of, “What will the press think if they hear about this?”**

**I guess that’s held me back some as well. I barely have myself sorted, and I’ve had enough trouble with the press. Imagine how the papers would explode if they knew I’m—whatever I am. Queer? Queerish? I don’t know. People have always been so eager to put labels on me for every little thing that I just want to shake it all off. I just think of myself as me. Always have. Not the Boy Who Lived. Not queer or whatever I am. I’m just myself.**

**I’ve really rambled on about this, haven’t I? Well, you asked, so you’re getting a ramble.**

**Molly’s still convinced I’m gay and just need some encouragement. Ron and Hermione keep trying to just set me up with anyone nice that they find. George sends me on as many one night stands with people as I’ll let him. Everybody in the family knows this thing about me, but it’s not like any of them understand, because it’s not like I understand it myself.**

**Tell the truth, I’m a bit envious. You just like men—it’s straight forward. (ha ha, straight forward, yes, I’ll shut up now) You know it, you know what you like, know what you do and don’t want, and it’s all settled. Damn you and being so sorted.**

**So that’s my answer to your last letter. Did I actually answer your questions? I can’t even tell.**

**If this was at all coherent, please reply and let me know. I feel absolutely ridiculous right now.**

**Harry**

 

_Dear Harry,_

_Weather is finally cooling down. The leaves are actually starting to turn. New York in autumn is extraordinary. Maybe I should take some pictures to send you._

_Oh, you wanted me to reassure you, didn’t you?_

_Harry—of COURSE it is fine to have no answers about who you want or if you want anyone. What you said made sense. Yes, it was coherent. Don’t let people push you into choosing something that you don’t want. Of course, I’m not happy that you seem to be unhappy about the whole thing—did you ever think you’d see the day when I was concerned about your happiness?—but you’re the captain of your own ship, as it were. You make your own decisions._

_And I am certainly not as sorted as I might seem. Fact of the matter is, I think it would be very nice to have a boyfriend, but being a freak—yes, I’ll use that word if I damn well please—precludes that situation. I see the people around me pairing off, and it’s not like my friends don’t poke and prod at me to settle as well. I’d like to, but you know what it’s like to not be like everyone else. Anyways, we certainly weren’t promised fairness or that we’d get everything we wanted (were we? Were we promised that and I just didn’t get the owl?)._

_I hope you didn’t worry yourself too much about what I’d think of your letter. I didn’t think it was ridiculous at all…._

 

 **…if you never intend to date, then I’m clearly doomed** ….

 

_…And what did you mean by that line that if I don’t date, then you’re doomed? Good lord, you’re not carrying a torch for me, are you? ;)_

_See? I’m capable of those emoti-whatever things…._

**…Ha ha, no, am not carrying a torch for you. If I ever was, it was probably an actual torch so that I could set you on fire. Old days!**

**What I meant was, I think you would make someone an excellent boyfriend, and if you don’t think that you can find someone because you feel different, then someone like me has no hope whatsoever….**

 

_Harry,_

_I’d make an excellent boyfriend? You’re going to make me blush. I have to say, I like you much more now that you don’t hate me…._

 

**…yeah, sorry about the hating you for two decades thing….**

_…Forgiven, but only because you think I’d make an excellent boyfriend…._

 

**…You’re never going to let that part about ‘an excellent boyfriend’ go, are you….**

… _Oh God no. Never. I’ve printed out that letter and framed it._

_In other news, Us had his lip split at school today. Fuck. He was very good, though—didn’t fight back, just told the other boy to go fuck himself. He’s being very well behaved._

_And—speaking of my boys—I cannot tell you how gratifying it is to see Ty this frustrated. I know, I know. He’s a good man, and a gem for stepping in to deal with the boys while I work at the shop and try to figure out how to while away my hours. But he was so convinced going into this that he could handle it, and to see that he is utterly overwhelmed just pleases me. I know—how Malfoy of me. The boys don’t listen to a word out of his mouth. I shouldn’t be pleased about this. I really shouldn’t. Only I am. I suppose it’s nice to know that I’m not so easily replaced…._

 

**…There’s the Malfoy I know. Happy because a man volunteering with disadvantaged youth is failing spectacularly….**

_Dear Harry,_

_Today was shit. I’m letting you know right away, so that you understand the kind of letter you’ll be getting._

_That racist bastard Lyman threw Zion in the back of his car and took him to the station for no reason. Booked him for jaywalking. JAYWALKING. It was just a fuck you to everybody. Apparently Lyman’s commanding officer was livid about the whole thing (as well she should have been) and made Lyman cut Zion loose, but Zion had to be there for four hours, and they stuck him in with the adult offenders. I understand that he’s sixteen, that he can be tried as an adult now, but for fuck’s sake. He is not an adult, he is a child._

_I fucking hate Lyman with every breath in my body. One day he’s going to really hurt one of my boys and I am going to kill him._

_Oh, and I ran into Freddy today, which was just a delight, so I am telling you now, you had better regale me with idyllic tales of the countryside and cows and green fields and all of that boring bullshit just to calm me down. _

_Anyways, Freddy…._

**…So there are cows. And green fields. And trees. Plenty of trees. All sorts of calm English countryside things.**

**That wasn’t helpful, was it….**

_…That was in no way helpful. I mark that effort ‘Troll.’ Troll, Harry…._

**Dear Draco,**

**Not Troll! Anything but that!**

**I do hope you’re having a better day than yesterday and the day before. I actually did something of interest, and you’re going to hear about it.**

**You know how reluctant I am to go to any of the public events I’m invited to. However, today was the grand opening of England’s Museum of Wands! I couldn’t help myself. It also helped that for the grand opening, it was just a small group of people who got to go in first. Privilege has its perks, sometimes.**

**After I said the right things to the right people, I was able to just have a wander. It wasn’t that long, but I will definitely go back. It was an extraordinary collection. I’m not one for museums—yes, of course you’re shocked—but this was right up my alley.**

**Sorry! I’ll write more later, but Ron’s calling me up for dinner. I’m at his and Hermione’s for the night, then back home tomorrow. I got Rosie a toy wand, and she’s leaving sparkles everywhere. Hermione is going to have my head.**

**Before I go, though, I had to tell you—guess whose wand has pride of place in the museum?**

**I wish I could see your face right now. Anyways, talk to you later!**

**Harry.**

**P.S. Before I forget—do you know how to Skype?**


	29. Chapter 29

The day I went before the Wizengamot, I prepared myself as best I could.

            Margritte bought me a black suit. Not robes. I was quite adamant about that. I dressed as carefully as I was able. At the last moment, I began to worry about my hair. It was halfway down my back by that point, wavy without any magic to keep it straight. I decided to hell with it. I couldn’t change the fact that I looked like my father. I left my hair loose, and forced myself not to look in the mirror a second longer.

            I had spent days listening to a discman at full blast wherever I went in the house. The sound was going to be a shock, I knew it. There wasn’t much I could do about the bustle of the outside world, no way to simulate that. Sound, though—I could replicate that. I listened to every CD at such a volume that Mother visibly grit her teeth every time I walked by.

            “The barrier will come down,” I said again and again to Margritte. “We will port key to London. We will go through the guest entrance. I will have my hearing. They will decide if I can leave. If I can, I will come home to say goodbye, and then we will come back to London. If I can’t, I come back for another six months.”

            “You’re not coming back for another six months,” she admonished. “Be positive.”

            “The barrier will come down. We will port key to London.”

            When the day came, Mother kissed my hands, and smiled as I hadn’t seen her smile in years. “Everything will be just fine,” she said. “You’ve done exactly what you needed to get out of this. You’ve worked so hard. I’m so proud of you. Your father would be so proud of you.”

            I nodded. I knew that if I was lucky, this was the last day I would ever see the manor. I had not been sentimental about it.

            When I went outside, she clung to the doorway. I didn’t realize it then, but I think she was frightened to go any further. I was desperate to escape our prison. Mother had become far too accustomed to it.

            Margritte was waiting for me on the other side of the barrier with a smile, along with two Aurors I did not recognize, wearing muggle clothes. They went through the rules, obviously unimpressed by my existence. I kept my eyes on Margritte, nodding in all the right places, saying ‘yes’ in all the right places.

            The younger woman lifted her wand, and the barrier melted away. I sucked in a deep breath as the red suddenly faded from my world. It had tinged all the light that snuck into our house for years. The day was sunny, and the sky was blue. Just blue.

            I hesitated, then took a step across. It was the farthest I had been allowed in years, save my brief sojourn in hospital. This was under my own power. I chose to take that step.

            Margritte held her hands out to me, and I grabbed onto them. I looked at her for encouragement, and she gave me a nod. I tried not to shiver, cold even in the warm day light, and followed the others.

            I forgot to look back at my mother.

            The port key was a half crushed tin can. I shut my eyes, squeezing Margritte’s hand for all it was worth as we were whirled and crushed through space. _Like the dragon we rise_ , I told myself. _Like the dragon we rise, like the dragon we rise_.

            We came out in an abandoned looking building not far from the Ministry, and I forced myself to untangle from Margritte. I wanted to cling to her. But I was not a drowning man. I had to do this under my own steam. I brushed off my suit jacket, and flicked back my hair, and said, “Shall we?”

            When we stepped out into London, it was as frightening as I had assumed it would be, but in a different way. Things never frighten you in exactly the way you expect. Everything was fast, and bright, and loud, and no one looked at us. Everyone had somewhere to be. I did not matter. I had worried that people would stare.

            Of course, once we actually arrived in the Ministry, that was when people started to look. I hadn’t gotten more than two meters onto the main floor when people almost tripped off their feet, staring. _Shouldn’t have worn black_ , I realized. It made me look too much like my father. I reasoned that what else would I have worn? I had only ever worn black.

            So I straightened my tie, and held my head up, not letting any of my apprehension cross my face. We walked across the promenade, people slowing down, the sound dipping every time I approached, then whispers filling the void once I passed.

            In the lift, I allowed myself a few seconds where I closed my eyes, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth.     

            Margritte said, “Very rude, all of those people staring,” and I snorted, having to put a hand up to my lips.

            Once we were downstairs, outside the chambers, I had to leave her. “I will be in to say many nice things about you,” she reassured me, holding my wrist.

            “It would probably be better if you were honest,” I replied.

            She gave my cheek the lightest of slaps. “None of that. Go now. Make me proud.”

            I walked in and—it was the full Wizengamot. That was unexpected. Margritte told me that usually it was just the rehabilitation committee and a few interested members. _Bloody hell_ , I thought, and walked forward, not daring to look side to side to see if anyone else was watching.

            Shacklebolt sat in the middle of people who ranged in expression from impassive to contempt. “Mr. Malfoy,” he said.

            “Minister,” I replied, giving him a light nod. “Esteemed members.” There was a rigid looking chair waiting for me in front of everyone. I unbuttoned my jacket, taking a seat, and crossed my legs at the knees, folding my hands in my lap.

            “You come before us today seeking early release from your sentence of five years house arrest, having served four. Is this correct?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “I have before me recommendations for your release from the rehabilitation committee. They speak most highly of you, Mr. Malfoy.”

            “I imagine it must be quite peculiar. It’s the first time anyone has ever said anything kind about a Malfoy without being paid for the privilege.”

            He blinked, and there were some surprised looks, and a few titters. I kept my gaze steady, and my hands steady. _Like the dragon we rise_.

            “Shall we go through the evidence presented?”

            I bowed my head. “At your leisure, sir.”

            For the next two hours, I stayed very still and quiet as people spoke to my rehabilitation. Margritte spoke for an hour straight, attesting to my dedication and hard work. Any time someone even suggested that I was simply putting on an act, she turned into an absolute lion. At one, she snapped, “I find that very humorous, coming from you, Preston Ilius—when was the last time you had a muggle in _your_ house?” The man went bright red and sputtered. Once she was finished extolling my virtues, I was pink in the cheeks myself.

            Once it was all done, I was asked if I would like to speak. I had considered whether I wanted to or not. I wasn’t sure if they just wanted me to keep my mouth shut and be sorry or if they actually wanted to hear what I thought. At the last moment, I decided that no matter the outcome, I needed to speak.

            I unfolded my hands, setting them on my thighs, and looked across the Wizengamot as I spoke, into every face. “Other people have spoken for me, but I believe that I should speak for myself. I am here because I have achieved what I believe was meant by the rehabilitation program, for which I cannot say enough good things. I have learned…more in the past three and a half years than I think I learned in the eighteen years preceding it. I learned the things I was not allowed to know as a child. But I will not say that had I known them then that I would not be here before you now. I cannot know that for certain. I will not tell you that I am a good person, because I’ve not had the chance to prove it to anyone. Save Margritte, who might, as you can tell, have a slight bias for me.”

            I took a deep breath. “Four years ago, my family sat in this room and said what we had to say in order to receive lighter sentences. Not a word that came from our mouths was meant.” That startled some people. “I wish to be very clear—I love my mother. I love my father. I know what they are—I know what we are—but I will never not love them. I say that we lied because I know that my mother is not getting out of Malfoy Manor before the end of her sentence, and my father has no possibility of leaving Azkaban for another sixteen years. If I knew that there was a chance for them to leave sooner—perhaps I would not be so frank. Or—maybe I would. I’m not sure. I say that we told you what you wanted to hear because I want to impress upon you that I know the difference between saying the right thing and doing the right thing. My father…apologized. He didn’t mean it. My mother said that she hadn’t known how terrible things would become. She didn’t mean that either. And I didn’t say a word, because my parents told me not to. They told me not to because they knew I wouldn’t be able to lie properly. When I sat before you—I hated muggles. I hated half bloods. I hated muggle borns. I thought of them in terms that I will not use here, nor ever again. So I said nothing. It would have been better if I had spoken myself into a prison term. It would have been more honourable. Instead, I was sent back to the manor. That in itself—as you can imagine—has in its own way been a sort of hell. I won’t lie and say that I’m not eager to leave. Every room is a place where people were killed and tortured, every inch is a memory of _him_. I want to leave. Except…if it is the opinion of the Wizengamot that a person cannot change…that I have not changed…I will go back without another word said. I will continue my studies.

            “I have done everything that you have asked of me. I did it unwillingly at first. I did it because I simply wanted to be free of that—that house. Only I came to understand…that I deserved my sentence. And more. The things I have seen…and done…and said…I do not think they can be forgiven. I am not asking you for forgiveness. It would be an insult. I’m asking for the opportunity—to begin a life that is worth something. I imagine that many of the people who come before you once their sentence is complete tell you that they are different people. I imagine you’re probably sick of hearing it. I am not a different person from the one who came before you four years ago. I am still a Malfoy. I will—unfortunately—always be a Malfoy. But when I last saw you, I was a child. Now I am a man.” I saw McGonagall, watching me intently. I looked at her, and said, “I would like very much to see if I can be a man of worth.”

            I gave my head a bow. “That’s all I’d like to say, sir. Thank you for your time.”

            The Minister’s deep voice rolled over me. “Draco Malfoy, you have completed the requirements for early release. I now ask the Wizengamot if anyone can present a compelling argument for why your sentence should be served in full.”

            I admit, I felt my jaw twitch. This was it. This was when we would see if my work meant anything. _It means something no matter what they think. It matters to me_.

            A man I did not recognize opened his mouth, but without so much as raising his head, Shacklebolt said, “I would like to remind everyone that I said ‘compelling.’ His last name does not count.”

            The man shut his mouth.

            A few agonizing seconds went by.

            “Very good,” said the Minister and I realized that I was going free.

            I felt something like an electrical shock go up both sides of my neck. They had agreed. I was no longer a prisoner. I was just…me.

            I realized that Shacklebolt was speaking, and had to focus to catch what he was saying. “—Will be conditional upon compliance with a number of measures. For one year, you will wear a tracking bracelet on your ankle that will monitor your movements and the manner of spells you cast. If you should—“

            No. This wasn’t right. I lifted a hand, and he arched a brow.

            “Excuse me, sir. I didn’t mean to interrupt, only there seems to be an error. I was told that upon completion of my sentence, I would not be monitored. If I’m mistaken, I apologize, but I’ve no wand. I have no means of casting any spells. Has—the policy changed?”

            “Mr. Malfoy, you do have a wand,” the Minister said, and I frowned. No I ruddy well didn’t. He looked at me with an expression that I could not discern. “Your wand was being held by another. He asked that it be returned to you upon your release.”

            Good _God_. Harry Potter. Harry Potter had asked that I be given back my wand.

            The Minister gestured to a short woman in Aurors' robes, and she produced a wand, crossing the floor to me. Not just a wand. _My_ wand. Hawthorn. Unicorn hair. Ten inches.

            She held it out to me, and for a moment I merely stared at it. Hesitantly, I stood up. I reached out, and took it into my hand.

            I hadn’t held a wand in four years. I hadn’t seen this wand since that terrible night. I had never wanted to see it again.

            Cutting the Minister off, I said, “This is the wand that killed Voldemort.”

            There were some gasps—it hadn’t occurred to me that people might be shocked by the sound of that name—and I looked up. Shacklebolt said, “Indeed.”

            “Has this—performed any magic since then?”

            “Not that I am aware of. You should be thankful, Mr. Malfoy. There was a faction most insistent that the wand in question belonged in a museum.”

            Before he could continue, I said, “And if I keep this, I spend a year on parole?”

            “Yes, Mr. Malfoy,” the Minister said, and I could hear exasperation creep into his voice. “As I was saying, you will submit to biweekly—“

            Taking the wand by both ends, I snapped it over my knee.

            A second passed, then chaos briefly broke out. There were some cries, and from my peripheral vision I could see people half rising from their chairs.

            I couldn’t have cared less. Taking the two pieces into one hand, I said to the Minister, “Freedom means far more to me than magic ever will.” I looked at the broken pieces of wand, connected by strands of unicorn hair, and held it out to the shocked Auror standing near me. “I imagine someone will want that.” She took it from me, ashen. I put my hands behind my back, returning my attention to the Minister. “Without a wand, I go free immediately, yes?”

            He was staring at me. “You do,” he said after a second.

            “Thank you for your time, Minister. Members of the Wizengamot.” I looked to McGonagall again. She was blinking, but I saw her begin to smile. I bowed to her. “Headmaster.”

            I turned and left and I never felt more free.

 

Freedom, as it turns out, is a little terrifying.

            I find myself with evenings where _nothing_ happens. Nothing. No one calls with an emergency, no one texts. The house seems overwhelmingly quiet.

            I figured out after the first week that I could not spend evenings at home. Every night I go out and do something. Gemma and I now have a standing date to see a movie every Tuesday. Sometimes I go for long walks. The goal is to discover something new every time.

            I’ll take my laptop with me to a café and email Harry. If I catch him before bed, sometimes we email back and forth a few times in a single night. We’ve managed to keep the bickering to a low simmer, I would say. For us, that’s miraculous.

            I’m trying to find a hobby. I’ve gone bowling. I was dreadful at it. I bought some needles and wool and I’ve been watching tutorials on YouTube to see if I can knit. That might be a losing proposition. I’ve read a lot. Right now I’m reading a book a day, so I’ve finally gotten myself a library card.

            Derrell is still passive aggressively upset with me, but I know he’s exhausted. Everyone at the shop is happy to have me there full time without any other commitments. To be honest, I kind of enjoy it as well. My responsibilities are very minimal at the moment.

            Of course, I have this nagging sensation that I’m doing something incredibly selfish. When I go to bed without helping anyone with their homework, I sort of feel like I’m useless. I’m not as tired as I was a month ago, that’s for certain, but there’s this thing gnawing at my guts that keeps asking, _why do you think you’re allowed to do this_?

            I’ve been thinking a little about school. University, I mean. If that’s a thing I want to do. At the very least, it would get Derrell off my balls. He’s bothered me enough about doing something more than working at the shop. I don’t suppose he thought I would bail on him first, though. That might explain some of the bitchiness.

            What would I do, though? I wouldn’t even know where to start. Social work? That would devour my entire life. I wouldn’t mind that. I could certainly do it. I could use something like that and keep working in the Bronx. I miss the Bronx, to be honest. I go see the boys every few days, and it doesn’t feel like enough.

            Sometimes I wonder what I’ve done. Why I left so abruptly. It didn’t seem like me.

            But then I remember why I did it.

            Evan has been dead for three weeks, three days, and six hours.

            I have all this time to think, and I go over what I did, again and again. I think of how badly I fucked up. That day at the Brooklyn Museum—I actually used the word _freak_ —

            I can’t change it. I make mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes.

            Yes, but not everyone helps kill a child.

            Jesus.

            He had three more months of life than he might have. I try telling myself that, when it gets bad. Which means I tell myself that several times a day. I go for walks, I see my friends, I answer the texts from the boys when they reach out, and the spaces in between are filled with Evan.

            Here is the truth: I did not go on leave because I am tired or need time to think. I left because I’m terrified that I’m going to kill another one of my children.

 

I wait expectantly, chewing on the side of my lip. It’s been a few minutes, and I know the connection is fine on my end.

            I’m sitting on my windowsill, feet propped up, laptop resting on my thighs. I rest my head against the pane, and I see the man who looks at me sometimes when he passes. He’s standing at the corner, gazing up at my window. There’s a part of me that wants to tell him to run. Run as far from his people as he can and never look back. Then there’s the part that wants to yell at him to stop staring and drag his closeted arse back to his wife or whoever’s waiting at home for him.

            Something’s happening on my computer screen. A circle goes around in a loop a few times, and then I’m looking at a slightly fuzzy picture of Harry.

            He waves, and there’s a slight lag when he says, “Hello!”

            I find myself smiling, unbidden. “Your connection is absolute shit.”

            “Fuck. Just a second.” He pushes away from the desk he’s sitting at, and moves out of sight of the camera, giving me an unimpeded view of his house.

            The cottage is actually quite lovely. It looks clean. A bit old and dim, but he has a few glass lamps on. There is a huge green sofa that practically begs to be napped upon, and the furniture is all wooden and shone to an actual visible gloss, even with this pixelated screen.

            “You realize it’s 2010,” I tease. “You should have this figured out by now.”

            The image jostles a little. “I told you—“ It sounds like his teeth are gritted. “The connection out here is—bugger—not that good—there.” The screen clears dramatically, and he steps back, clutching his wand in his right hand. “How’s that?”

            He’s wearing a green v-neck tee that brings out his eyes, collar bones under brown skin on display. His hair is a wonderful disaster, and his glasses are slightly askew.

            “View’s improved,” I say.

            “Thank Merlin,” Harry sighs, tossing his wand on the desk and sitting back down. “I’m a terrible wizard, but the one thing I can manage is keeping that damned internet connection from dying on me.”

            “You’re not a terrible wizard. You’re an average wizard.” I laugh at the look he give me. “Are you still using dial up out there?”

            “No, you tosser. It’s—cable something. I don’t quite know. Ron taught me a brilliant spell to keep it working. It only seems to go for an hour or so, so tell me if the screen starts to get a bit wobbly again.”

            “You think we’re still going to be talking after an hour?”

            He grins, lopsided. “I think you miss my rambling.”

            I bark. “You did not ramble. I rambled and you were—“ I stop myself from saying something biting.

            “Yes? What nasty thing were you about to say?”

            I smile sweetly. “I was going to say that you were an absolute treasure.”

            “You fucking liar, Malfoy.”

            I laugh, then say, “Tell me things. Tell me what’s new.”

            “You know nothing is.”

            “It could be.”

            “Nothing is ever new with me, and you know it.” Harry picks up a mug of something. “Yourself?”

            “Now listen. You’re the one who suggested talking face to face. You need to have something to say.”

            “What, am I wasting your valuable time?”

            It hits a nerve that I didn’t expect. “Fuck off,” I mutter.

            Harry’s eyes widen briefly with surprise. “Sorry—did I—“

            I rub my forehead. “No—no, you’re fine. I just feel—a bit dodgy today. About the whole taking leave thing.”

            “Not enjoying it?”

            “Ah, enjoying might not be the word. I’ve gone because—“ Because one of my boys is dead and I’m being very careful not to show anyone that my heart is broken. “It was necessary. Don’t think I’ve not noticed you trying to avoid the question. Tell me something new.”

            Harry sighs, but then he sheepishly raises a hand. “Can you see that?”

            There’s a bright red mark on his palm. “What pray tell is that?”

            “That would be a very foolish man trying to heal from a sucker wound.”

            “Sucker wound from what?”

            “Possibly—just possibly, mind—a…giant squid?”

            Leaning forward, I exclaim, “How in the literal fuck did you get stung by a giant squid?”

            “Hagrid sent me a sucker. I was having a look at it when it sort of—lunged.”

            “That man remains an absolute menace,” I sigh.

            I expect Harry to tell me I’m wrong. To argue with me, tell me that Hagrid is grand or misunderstood or something equally ridiculous. Instead, Harry smiles slightly. “I’m glad we could talk like this.”

            After a pause, I say, “Face to face, you mean?”

            “Yeah.” He scratches the back of his head. “Tell you the truth, I think I’ve missed it.”

            I swallow. Wait, why did I swallow like I was reacting to something? I’m not reacting to something. This is peculiar. I need to say something.

            “I—was wondering if you still wanted to come back to visit.”

            The truth is I have been. I’ve waited to see if he was going to bring it up in one of our emails, but he hasn’t. I’m the one who suggested it, after all. Maybe it was on me to broach the topic.

            Harry actually seems to beam a bit before getting it under control. Why on earth are we acting like this? “I would like that. I was thinking maybe you’d changed your mind.”

            “I was thinking maybe you didn’t actually want to come.”

            “I would. Do you have a date in mind?”

            “What works best for you?”

            “I’m a man of leisure, Draco. Anything works well for me.”

            “Would—sometime in the next month be all right?”

            “It would.”

            “How long would you be staying for?”

            “How long do you think you could stand me?”

            This feels like flirting.

            I haven’t let myself think it before, but it’s been fluttering around the edge of my subconscious for the last little while, and now that I’ve actually thought it, fuck, I’m not going to be able to get rid of it.

            _Oh yes I will. Watch me_.

            “A few days this time?” I ask. “Makes more sense than coming in on the Floo one day and leaving on it the next.”

            “This is true.” Harry pulls a knee up to his chest, resting his chin upon it. “What would you think about five days?”

            Five days. “What do you think we’d do with five days?” God, I can’t seem to stop myself now. No, that’s not what’s happening. What I just said could be interpreted as totally innocent.

            “I’m sure we could come up with some ideas.”

            You’re not helping, Harry! “Five days then,” I say, a bit tight. “Very well. Would you like me to look into hotels in the area?”

            He looks off guard a moment before saying, “Yeah! Sure, if—if you don’t mind.”

            “You didn’t think you were going to sleep on my couch the whole time, did you?”

            “To be honest?”

            “You did! For heaven’s sake, you remember that you’re a wealthy man, yes?”

            “Fine, fine.”

            “Would you _prefer_ to sleep on my sofa for five nights?”

            “I’m just used to staying on couches when I go visit my friends, is all. A hotel is fine.”

            After a second, I ask, “Are we friends?”

            Harry looks at me. I can feel two decades hanging between us. He bites his lip, then gives a brave nod. “We are.”

            Yes. Yes, we are. Not pretend friends, not two people forced together by circumstance. Harry and I are proper friends. Why does that make me so nervous?

            Keeping any feelings off my face, I say, “I guess you’re sleeping on my sofa, then.”

            “It’s fine, I can—“

            “Oh, far be it from me to break with some longstanding tradition of yours. I wouldn’t want you to feel like an adult instead of a college transient.”

            Harry clears his throat. Picture’s not good enough for me to tell if he’s blushing or not. “All right.”

            “All right,” I echo.

            What precisely have we just done?

            Nothing. It’s nothing. Friends. Harry and I are friends. That’s strange enough.


	30. Chapter 30

“That’s not an acceptable answer,” I say, phone pinned between my shoulder and ear as I place the order for ink.

            “It’s the truth! I don’t got another answer—“

            “You don’t _have_ another answer, and yes you do.”

            Victor says impatiently, “I don’t _have_ another answer. He doesn’t know anything, Dre! He’s a stuck up, lying, thinks he’s too good for everything _pendejo_ —“

            Turning away from the computer, I bark, “Hey!” I startle two of the people waiting in the corner. “Young man. My Spanish is terrible, but there’s a few words I know, and you and I both know that is _not_ appropriate.”

            “Dre,” Victor pleads, “I can’t work with this guy. He doesn’t know anything.”

            Putting my face in my palm, I sigh. “Victor. The man literally grew up three blocks from you. He’s had five years of psychology training, one of them at literally the best school on the planet—“

            “And he don’t know shit. Not like you do. He doesn’t know how to talk to anybody—he thinks he’s better than everybody—“

            “He doesn’t. Victor—if I talk to him, would you promise me to please go to your meetings this week?”

            “Why? He doesn’t care if I’m there—“

            “I care. Your cousin cares. Your cousin needs you there. Come on. Ty actually speaks Spanish. That’s a hell of a lot more than you can say for me.”

            “It doesn’t matter if you speak Spanish, you speak my _language_.”

            I smile. I can’t help it. It’s nice to know I’m still needed. But I need to keep my distance. Ty will be better for them than I am. They just don’t know it yet. “I will talk to Ty if you promise me you’ll go to your meetings next week.”

            There’s a long pause from the other end of the phone. I look up as Rodrigo comes out from the back. He raises his brows at me, and I lift a finger. He nods, turning and going back into the studio.

            “Will you help me with my English homework?”

            I cut off a chuckle. “Text me after your meeting tonight, and if you don’t feel like you got the help you needed from Ty, I will come over and help you with your homework. We have a deal?”

            “Yeah,” Victor says reluctantly.

            “Okay, I have to get back to work. No matter what, send me a text after the meeting to let me know how things went.”

            “Okay. Later, Dre.”

            “Later.” I hang up, and slip my phone into my pocket. Standing up, I give the women in the corner a small smile. “Ladies, I’m going to see if Leanna’s almost ready for you. Just a moment.”

            I walk into the back. Leanna’s adjusting her machine with a furrowed brow. I can see her lips moving, but can’t hear whatever she’s muttering to herself. Jason is wiping down his entire station, and Isaac is halfway through a foot tattoo of a lighthouse. The girl he’s working on has her hands clamped over her eyes, and is very steadily and deliberately breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. Good on her.

            “Troubles?” I ask Leanna.

            She shakes her head, holding up her machine. “You know these new bands we’re trying out? I hate them.”

            “I like them,” Jason says.

            “I’m thrilled for you. I hate them. They don’t secure the—goddamn it!” The band snaps right off the machine. “You see what I mean? Jason, this is some—“

            “Calm down,” I say, walking across the studio. From behind me, Leanna starts sniping, but I go into the store room. With all my extra time at the shop, I’ve reorganized everything in the back. Labelled everything too. I really enjoy the label maker. I find a box of the old elastics, and head back into the studio. I hold them out to Leanna. “There.”

            “Thank _Christ_ ,” she says, grabbing them out of my hand. “Can you _please_ order more of these?”

            “Already have. Should come tomorrow.”

            “Draco, I do _not_ know what I’d do without you.” I shrug, as humble as I can be—which, let’s admit, isn’t much—and turn to ask Rodrigo what he wanted. I’m likely going on a smoke run. However, Leanna says, “Hey—how’s Harry?”

            I’m off balance a second. She hasn’t asked about him since I brought him in. “Harry?”

            “Yeah, you know. A little taller than me, green eyes—looks like he was sculpted by the gods.”

            I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t go that far. And don’t tell him that. His ego’s bad enough as it is.”

            “But how is he?”

            “Fine.”

            “What’s new with him?” Jason asks.

            I turn. Why are they both asking me? “Not—much. He went to London recently to…see a museum.”

            “Huh,” Leanna says. “Doesn’t seem like the museum type.”

            “Sports museum,” I say quickly. “English sports.”

            “So you’re still in touch,” Jason says.

            I lift up my hands, looking between them. “All right— _what_ is going on here?”

            All faux innocence, Leanna says, “We’re just asking about your friend.”

            Dropping my arms, I growl, “Oh, for God’s sake. It is _not_ like that—“

            “He’s not your friend?”

            “You don’t mean friend, you mean boyfriend, and Harry is most assuredly, nor will ever be, my boyfriend.”

            Jason goes, “Hmm.”

            “What’s that noise? Why do you make that noise whenever I talk about him?”

            “Because the lady doth protest too much,” Isaac pipes up.

            “Don’t you start on me too!” I spread my hands. “Listen—I have one person—one friend—that I speak to from England. The one. That’s all. He and I just chat. That’s all there is to it.” Jason and Leanna look at each other. “Now what was that?!”

            Jason raises his shoulder. “I’m just saying, buddy—you didn’t see him looking at you while you were getting your heart.”

            “He was interested in the tattooing process.”

            “He was interested in your body,” Leanna pipes up.

            “Okay,” I say firmly, “enough. We’re just mates. We chat. That’s all.”

            “He coming back to visit?” I don’t reply right away, and Leanna drops her jaw in mock scandal. “He _is_. When is that handsome man who’s definitely only just your friend coming back to visit?”

            “In—in a few weeks, and I’m certainly never bringing him back here if you all insist on making something out of nothing—“

            “Draco, come on,” says Jason. “If I can find somebody, then you can—“

            Turning on him, I snap, “You’ve been dating Alex less than a month. I don’t know that you’ve definitively ‘found somebody’ yet.”

            There’s a brief silence, and Jason’s eyes narrow. Leanna loses some of her playfulness, and sets down her machine. “Jeez, Draco—it’s not the end of the world if you’re interested in somebody. He likes you, you obviously like him. What’s the problem?”

            I burst out, “The problem is that he’s the one who stabbed me when I was sixteen.” I gesture in a circle at my chest. “He’s why I can’t take off my shirt without scaring children, why I wear my hair down on this side of my head. We’re _friends_ now—that’s miracle enough. Now kindly get off my balls.” I let out a hiss and point to Rodrigo. “You wanted cigarettes?” He nods, wide eyed. I turn, saying, “I’ll be back in twenty,” and leave.

 

Histrionic. That’s what I just was.

            I love my friends, but sometimes they don’t know when to stop. Of course, that’s not fair. I tease them relentlessly. It’s not their fault I’m so thin skinned sometimes.

            I lift the cigarette to my mouth and have another drag on it. They are disgusting, but I’ll have one once a year just to try and figure out why Rodrigo likes them so much. Eight years on, I still can’t decipher it.

            I’m sitting outside the bodega down the street from the shop, on a bench. Watching the people walking by. A lot of them cast me dirty looks. I make sure to blow smoke in their general direction.

            Why did I get so upset? They’ve taken the piss out of me for men before. And where did my reaction come from? It’s not like I’ve even considered the idea of Harry and—ugh, it even sounds weird in my own head. Harry and I. Not just Harry and I as two separate entities. But as a unit.

            Weird. Weird weird weird. I shudder, and take another puff off the cigarette.

            Yes, he’s a nice man. Immature and stubborn and reckless, but also brave and decisive and strangely vulnerable in ways I did not expect. And yes, he is very nice looking. He’s handsome—distractingly handsome, and he has a very nice body, and—

            I’m not sitting here thinking about Harry’s body, am I? Good lord, I think I am.

            Shaking my head, I tuck my hair back behind my ear. Let people look at my scar if they like. It’s a piece of me. I’m not ashamed by it, I just don’t like answering the questions that come along with it. I hate the lying. At this point in my life, the lies about my past are sometimes indistinguishable from the truth.

            Harry. Right.

            It’s fine. It’s just some teasing and I was overly sensitive and that’s all it was. They took me off my guard. I didn’t think they were talking about— _that_ —behind my back. Only fair. Everyone and I talk about Jason behind his back, regarding his family or his romantic woes. It’s certainly long past my turn.

            I really am a disaster right now. It’s usually a lot harder to make me lose my temper. I’m just sort of a jumble of exposed nerves at the moment. Anything could make me—snap.

            Just have to apologize, is all. And get used to the teasing about Harry. Well, I might have put a stop to that after telling my friends that he gave me my scars. They’re more likely to hate him than anything now. That certainly was not what I wanted.

            _What do you want_?

            The hell if I know.

 

I knock on the door. Jason looks up with a crooked smile, sitting at his desk.

            I step inside, having a seat on the bench. I lean against the side of the desk and smile back. “You know I’m very happy about you and Alex, yes?”

            “Yeah, I know. You know we were just teasing you because we kind of like the idea of you being happy.”

            “Oh, shut up,” I mutter, blushing.

            He leans back, bouncing a little in his chair. “So, shit. You speak to one person from England, and it’s—“

            “Complicated,” I finish.

            “Always is, with you.” I look at him, not understanding, and Jason says, “You know—we’ve been friends a long time. And I still don’t know…a lot of things about you.”

            I shrug. “You know me. You know who I am. Who I was before you knew me—he wasn’t much.” I tap my fingers on the desk. “When Harry comes to visit, please don’t hate him.”

            “How could I not? He—“

            “I tried to kill him. I actually tried to kill him. He was defending himself.”

            “Defending himself seventeen times?” Jason says incredulously, and I blink. “I’ve seen you without your shirt enough times. I’ve counted.”

            “He was sixteen. He got carried away. I started it. I deserved it.”

            “Jesus, Draco, nobody deserves—“

            “It was fourteen years ago. I’m over it. I’m over it to the point where I’d like him to come visit me. I like that we’re friends. That we’re _just_ friends, incidentally. When he comes to visit, please try to be nice.”

            “Nope.”

            “Jason—“

            “You’re my friend. I’m allowed to hate anyone who’s ever hurt you.”

            I beam a little, then reach over and squeeze his wrist. “Likewise.”

           

The door opens, and I have to bite my lips together. The calm optimism of a month ago has disappeared from Ty’s face, replaced with a sort of grim blankness.

            “Want a beer?” he asks, stepping aside.

            “How many have you had?” I lean down, unlacing my boots.

            Lifting his bottle, Ty says, “This will be number two. Numbers three through six await in the fridge.”

            I slip my wand into my back pocket without him seeing, and stand up. “Lead on, then.”

            He leads me through the apartment. It’s a little place in Harlem, walls decorated with stark black and white photos of bodies. His roommate is a photographer. The roommate in question is sitting in the living room as we pass, playing a video game. He raises a hand as we pass. “’Sup.”

            “Evening,” I say.

            Turning on the kitchen lights, Ty walks tiredly to the fridge. I take a seat at the round, turquoise table by the wall, having a look around. The sink is filled with dishes, and there is a chore list on the fridge. Apparently it was Ty’s night to do those dishes.

            He gets me a beer, popping off the lid, and passes it to me before slumping down in the opposite seat. “Cheers,” I say with a smile.

            Ty grunts quietly, having a drink. I sip suspiciously at the beer. You never quite know what you’re getting with craft. Not terrible. Peaches? Is that what I’m tasting? No matter. It’s alcohol, and that’s what counts.

            I lean back, taking in the sight of him. There are bags under his eyes, and that haircut, which was so carefully maintained, definitely needs a trim. He’s wearing an Oxford jumper and jeans that perfectly fit his long legs, which he splays out.

            “And how are you?” I ask.

            “Bitch,” he says, and I can’t help a giggle, “how do I look like I’m doing?”

            “In fighting form,” I reply.

            “Like hell. Oh my God. I’ve got sessions with clients for six hours, and I meet with my supervisor for two hours every day, and then those kids…those fucking kids, Draco.” He puts his elbows on the table and rubs his hands over his face. “Was I like that? Was I actually like that?”

            “Are you joking? Of course you were.”

            “I wasn’t that obnoxious. Tell me I wasn’t that obnoxious.”

            Oh, how the tables have turned. “Do you remember that time I arranged lunch with the dean of—“

            “Yes,” he sighs.

            “And you blew it off to go get in a fistfight to defend Roderick’s honour or something?”

            “It was his sister’s, but more or less.”

            “And afterwards you refused to admit you’d done anything wrong. I could have strangled you with my bare hands. Not that I was much good to you in that moment, but still, you irritated the living shit out of me.” I lift my bottle to my mouth. “God, this is satisfying.”

            “Suppose I deserve that.”

            “I don’t mean to imply that I’m taking pleasure in your misery—except I sort of am.”

            “I don’t speak German, Draco, but I do know what schadenfreude is.”

            “Because you’re such a clever thing, aren’t you.”

            “They just do _not_ give a shit about what I think,” Ty says, sounding dazed. “Any suggestion I make, anything I say, they’re like, ‘uh huh,’ and then they do whatever the hell they were going to anyways.”

            “That’s teenagers for you.”

            “How the hell did you do it? It’s not an age thing. You were younger than me when you started at the center. First day, you managed to shut us all up.”

            “By establishing dominance. I didn’t realize what I was doing. Rick pissed me off by calling Derrell a faggot, so I took care of him. I didn’t know that it would have lasting consequences. It turned out to be the right thing to do. Every year, there’s always the one who thinks he’s bigger and badder than everyone else. Handle him and everyone else falls in line.”

            “Right now they all seem big and bad. And I swear Victor’s only a hundred ten pounds.”    

            With a laugh, I ask, “Is Victor giving you the most trouble?”

            “I think he and Richie are vying for the title. I mean—the new guys, they’re—both of the sophomores, they’re straight out of Horizons, and I’ve got two freshman who belong to these micro crews, and everybody’s looking to the guys who’ve been in the group the longest to see how to behave. Victor and Richie, they’re—making it pretty difficult.”

            “I’ve already spoken to Victor—“

            “Don’t do that,” Ty insists. “I’ve got this under control. I have to make this my own.”

            “All right. How do you feel like you have it under control?”

            “Don’t—do that. Don’t repeat my words back to me, because I know exactly what you’re doing—“

            “I’m honestly curious. How do you think you have it under control?”

            He gives me a displeased look, then admits, “I don’t. Okay?” He sits back, crossing his arms. “You know what Richie called me the other day? An Uncle Tom. This scrawny, Italian motherfucker called _me_ an Uncle Tom.”

            “And what did you say to him?”

            “I grit my teeth and told him that it wasn’t appropriate to speak about other people like that.”

            I almost choke on my drink. “Did you say it like that?”

            “Yes, I said it like that, because that’s how I was trained to—“

            “At your age, did you respond to me or did you respond to Joshua?”

            “Come on—“

            “Answer the question, young man.”

            “You, you smug bastard.”

            “Yes, and why’s that?”

            “Because you didn’t talk down to me. I’m not talking down to them, I’m talking to them like I would want to be spoken to—“

            “But they’re still teenagers, Ty. You can talk to them like a therapist or you can actually get their attention.”

            “I’m not going to be a gorilla, beating on my chest to assert my dominance.”

            “Well, figure something out. You certainly don’t want to feel like this forever, and they want someone to help them. Whether they realize it or not.”

            Ty mulls it over a second, then sighs. “Fine. What would you do?”

            Yes, Draco, what would you do? Care to remember how you got in this position in the first place?

            I avoid his eyes. “No. You’re right. You need to figure this out yourself, do it your own way. You’re there because you can offer them things that I can’t. You’ll be fine. It’s only the first month, after all.”

            We don’t say anything a moment.

            “You still haven’t seen a therapist yet,” Ty says.

            “I don’t intend to.”

            “Draco—“ He looks at me in consternation. “Man. Come on.”

            “That is a lost cause. I’d advise you not to expend your energy.”

            Ty sets aside his bottle, crossing his arms on the table. “Draco. Listen—nobody has a new problem. There are no new problems. There’s no reason why you can’t go to therapy. You’re just not that special.”

            I smile crookedly. “I am. You don’t know.” I lift my bottle to him. “You should try that attitude on the boys. They’d be far more likely to respond to that than ‘I disapprove of your inappropriate language.’”

            Ty looks at me from under his brows. “I’m going to tell you something. And I don’t want you to hit me with your bottle when I tell you this.”

            “I make no promises.”

            “You didn’t kill Evan.”

            I shut down, because fucking of course I do. Like I want to discuss this. “Piss off,” I mutter, holding my beer against my stomach.

            “Man, you gotta talk to somebody about this—“

            “What good would it do?” I ask. “Tell me, what good could possibly come of that? It certainly won’t bring him back. I’ve left the center, so I don’t have to worry about fucking up another one of the kids—“

            “Come on, you know you didn’t—“

            “Yes and no. Yes, of course I know that, and no, it doesn’t feel like I know that at all. I know myself well enough to understand certain things, and I know talking about it is not going to make it any better. Time is what will make things better. Time and thought, and being with my friends and that is all. I’m not going to pay someone to tell me what I already know. I just have to live with this. Sometimes that’s the only thing you can do.”

            “Christ, you are so stubborn.”

            “Have to be,” I say. “I work with teenagers. Speaking of people who are beating themselves up—“

            “Do not change the subject—“           

            “How have you found Us?”

            Ty actually seems relieved. “He’s great. I mean, he’s miserable, but he’s the best behaved of all the boys.”

            “Really.”

            “After what you told me, I was preparing myself for the worst, but—he’s never missed a meeting. Always does what he’s told. Keeps his mouth shut.”

            “God,” I say. “He must really be a mess. Well, we’re going to a movie later in the week. I’ll natter at him then.”

            “Talking isn’t nattering.”

            “It is.”

            “You’re worse than the kids,” Ty mutters.

           

I know I said I wasn’t going to, but then again, some things simply won’t stand.

            As I walk back to the flat, I take out my phone and dial. I zip my hoodie up a few more inches against the wind. Soon enough I should take out my beanie, if I intend to keep half my head shaved over winter.

            The phone picks up. “Hey, Dre—“

            “Richard DeMarco!” I bark. “What the hell is this I’m hearing from the other boys, that you called Ty an Uncle Tom?”

            “Uh—“

            “How is that in any situation an acceptable way to behave towards someone who’s doing his best to help you? This is not a rhetorical question. Tell me how that’s acceptable.”

            “It—it’s not.”  

            “Are you ever going to do it again?”

            “No.”

            “I cannot be there every moment of the day to make sure that you don’t act like a flaming arse to everyone you meet. You are nearly a grown man, and you should be behaving far better than this. I am _unimpressed_ right now, Richard. Spectacularly unimpressed.”

            “I’m sorry, Dre—“

            What the hell is that old bat doing? Mrs. E is standing beside my building, on the eastern side, staring up at it. If I’m not mistaken, she’s looking in the general direction of my apartment. It’s nearly ten at night, and I really don’t want to know—

            Oh, fuck it.

            “Memorize ten new quotes about respect. The next time I speak to you, you had better have them all on command.”

            I hang up and stride along the sidewalk. Mrs. E doesn’t break her gaze from my windows, her head tilted back. She’s not wearing any shoes. I’ve never seen that before. I mean, she’s an eccentric, and she’s insane, but I don’t think she’s homeless. Is she?

            “Mrs. E?” I ask. I follow her gaze up at my windows. Unsurprisingly, there’s nothing there. Why would there be? “Mrs. E.” She doesn’t blink. I clap my hands, startling her. “Mrs. E. Are you all right?”

            “Oh,” she says, glancing at me. She looks back up at the window, and frowns. “Unfortunate. It’s as I suspected.”

            “I’m almost afraid to ask.” She doesn’t reply, so I sigh and take the bait. “All right. What’s as you suspected?”

            “I knew that if I looked away, he’d vanish.”

            “Who?”

            “The boy in your apartment. The sad looking one.”

            The blood drains out of my face.

            I’m turning and running. It’s a scramble to get my keys out of my pocket and I drop them—fuck—I drop them and I grab them off the ground. I manage to shove the key into the lock, twisting it open.

            I take the stairs two at a time. I almost bowl over one of my neighbours, an elderly old man, and I can barely spare him a distracted apology as I run upstairs.

            When I get to the apartment, my hands are shaking, so I don’t bother with my keys. I summon my wand into my hand, and _alohomora_ the door open. I step inside, and push the door shut with my foot.

            I don’t turn on the lights. Instead, I raise my wand, the end glowing. I look for anything out of place, any sign that someone has been inside. There is nothing. It is cold, but it is always cold in here. Is it always _this_ cold, though?

            My mouth is filled with spit. I want to cast _revelio_ , but I don’t dare. I swallow, and then I just say it, because I have to.

            I ask, “Evan?”


	31. Chapter 31

My eyes hurt. It’s late. It’s far too late for me to be awake, but I can’t help it. I laid in bed for a few hours, but that didn’t work out, and so now I’m just sitting and waiting.

            The clock clicks over to 3, and I can’t take it anymore.

            I dial, putting the phone up to my ear. I’m sitting on my bed, up against the corner, wrapped in several blankets and with my coziest pair of pajamas on. I’ve made a bit of a nest with my pillows all around me. I’m so fucking tired.

            After several rings, the phone picks up. A few seconds pass, then a sleepy voice mumbles, “What?”

            “So you’re always this chipper in the morning, then.”

            A pause. “Draco?” He instantly sounds more awake.

            Too exhausted to be sheepish, I say, “The one. The only.”

            I hear him rustling around. “What’s the matter?”

            I could beat around the bush, but that seems disingenuous. “Ah—something happened and I have to tell someone, but I can’t tell anyone here or they would think I’m mad. One of those kinds of things.”

            “Is it—Jesus, is it 3 there?”

            “Tis.”

            “Let me find my glasses. Yes, I need my glasses to listen to you properly. There. They’re on my face. What’s happened?”

            I put my hand against my forehead, and bury my face between my knees. “I don’t know that anything has actually happened. That miserable old hag—set me off again and….”

            I’m probably just overreacting. I’m sensitive, and she hit a nerve, like she always does.

            “Draco. You need to give me more than that.”

            “You’ll think I’m being ridiculous.”

            “No, I won’t,” Harry says gently. “What happened?”

            So I tell him about coming home and finding Mrs. E staring at my windows. Going over and asking what she was doing. Her answer. “I just ran upstairs fast as I could. It didn’t even occur to me that someone might have broken in. I got inside, and the first thing I did—I started looking for Evan.” I feel my skin heating up. “I even said his name.”

            Quiet, Harry asks, “Did anything happen?”

            “Of course not. If it had, I would have led with, ‘that child I killed is haunting me.’ I wouldn’t have kept you in suspense.”      

            “Draco—Draco, you didn’t kill—“

            “People need to stop saying that! Just because I didn’t push the chair out from under him doesn’t mean it wasn’t my fault. It was my job, my responsibility to save him, and I didn’t. Not acting is as bad as acting. We both know that. I fucked up, I let him die—“

            “Shh. Draco. Come on now. That isn’t true.”

            I’m starting to cry a little. It’s not going to be bad, just a few tears. Only I’m tired and heartsick and I can’t seem to help myself. “Yes it is.”

            “No. It isn’t.” His voice is steady and soft. I just want to lean over and rest my head on his shoulder. “How many people have told you since it happened that it’s not your fault?”

            “They say that because they have to,” I reply, swiping at my eyes.

            “No, they say it because it’s true, and they know you’re going to try taking this all onto yourself.”

            “I was supposed to save him.”

            “He was supposed to save himself. Remember? People have to save themselves.”

            “I was supposed to help him. I said things—I said the wrong things—“

            “Draco, stop. Stop. Okay? You need to stop.”

            I hold my face in my hand, trying to catch my breath. “What do I do then? If I stop?”

            “I’m not sure. You didn’t expect me of all people to have the answers.” I smile weakly, and Harry says, “Not even a little laugh, huh. That’s no good.”

            “I smiled a bit. Not much, though. Sorry.”

            “Don’t be sorry. You don’t have to be sorry about anything right now.”

            “God, I’m so pathetic, calling you up at the crack of dawn—“

            “Oi,” Harry barks. “Don’t do that. You can call me. I want you to call me. If you need someone to talk to—I—I want you to call me. Deal?”

            “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I feel like…walking chaos at the moment.”

            “You put on a good show.”

            “I have to.”

            “The world won’t end if you’re not the strongest man in every room you walk into.”

            He catches me off guard. “I…hadn’t thought of it like that.”

            “See? There’s still some lights on upstairs.”

            “That always…drove me mad about you…did you know that? You act like the densest man alive, and then you have a moment of insight and it is just incredibly frustrating.”

            “Glad to help.” After a moment, Harry says, “Were you happy or upset that he wasn’t there?”

            I shake my head against my hand. “I don’t know. Part of me…part of me wants him to have gone on so badly, so that it’s done and final and over. This world, that world, no middle ground. And I know he can’t actually be here. Muggles don’t become ghosts. Only….”

            I can’t bring myself to say it. Harry has to prompt, “Only?”

            It’s hard to speak around this lump in my throat, so everything kind of comes out in a gasping rush. “Only I’ve seen what comes after for people like him and me. _You_ die and you go to a place that’s light, you go to the train station, you go to the place where you go on. That’s not where I went when I died. I went where it was dark and it was cold and it was the nightmare testing me out before it devoured me whole and if he’s not here he’s _there_.” Tears drip down my cheeks, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t want him to be there, Harry, but he must be if he’s not here.”

            Stifling a sob, I pull the blankets over my head. Evan is in the dark place. He is in his own private hell. We get what we deserve. He doesn’t deserve that though. Do they know? Whoever decides where we go? They must know. Only I can’t shake the feeling that he must be where I went. He’s in the dark because I couldn’t drag him up into the light.

            Harry’s trying to calm me down. I bite into my lip, and listen to him say, “Shh. Shh, it’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but…I’m here.”

            I swallow again, shoving my hair back from my face. “I wish you were here. Actual here.”

            “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It’s only a few weeks. Okay? It’s only a few weeks.”

            We’re talking to each other like—like something else, like we’re something else instead of what we are. What are we? Are we able to be friends? After everything that’s happened, is that the word for us? After all that’s passed between us, the word seems small and inconsequential. It seems inadequate.

            “What have…” I make myself catch a breath. I need to calm down. “What are you going to tell…tell your family? When you come?”

            “Would you believe me if I said I hadn’t thought that far ahead?”

            I let out a little laugh, which is better than nothing. “I might.” I wipe my whole face with my arm. “Oh, Christ,” I sigh.

            A few beats pass, then Harry says, “I’m going to tell them that I’m coming to visit you.”

            It sets up residence in my chest, and it feels warm. “Are you?” I say quietly.

            “Yeah. Is that all right?”

            “Yes.”

            “I won’t say where you are. They can all keep a secret, just not from each other, but I wouldn’t—I want you to trust me.”

            “I do trust you.”

            “Well, I trust you too.”

            “Harry?”

            “Yeah?”

            “What are we doing?”

            “I don’t know. I was hoping that you did.”

            “I haven’t the faintest.”

            “Well, at least I’m in good company, aren’t I.”

            I press my fingertips against my forehead. “I am sorry that I called you up first thing in the morning to be weepy and dramatic.”

            “Stop that,” he growls.

            “Yes sir.”

            “Jesus, don’t call me _that_.”

            I bite down on a smile. “You don’t have a military kink?”     

            “Merlin’s beard, no. Do you?”

            “I haven’t actually thought about it. Now I sound like you, don’t I.”

            “Do you feel any better?”

            “I do, actually. If you want, I can let you get back to sleep—“

            “No, I’m awake. But you should be going to sleep.”

            “I don’t know if I can. You know that kind of tired…when you’re so tired that you don’t know if you could fall asleep, even if you wanted?”

            “Ah—do you want me to tell you a story?”

            I burst out laughing, and wipe the last of the tears from my face. “Shut up.”

            “I’m serious! I could read you—just a second—I keep some books around here for Rosie—“ I can hear him getting up and moving around.

            “You are not going to read me a book intended for a four year old. Four? Three?”

            “She’s four, and I am. Here we are—you’ll like this one. _Dominic the Dragon_.”

            My breath catches in my throat. “You have _Dominic the Dragon_?”

            “Do you know this one?”

            “It was…that was my favourite book. When I was very little.”

            “Well, this is what they call fortuitous. Where are you?”

            “Sitting under many blankets on my bed.”

            “Put the phone on speaker, and lay down.” I don’t do anything for a moment. Harry growls, “Draco, don’t make me come over there. You know I’m rash enough to do it.”

            I do. I switch the phone to speaker, and set it on my pillow. Laying down, I twitch and shift until I’m comfortable. “There.”

            “Good. So…Dominic the Dragon was no ordinary dragon. Is that all right? Is my voice too loud?”

            In this moment, I think I might love him a little. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

            “Of course it is. Continuing. Dominic the Dragon was no ordinary dragon. He was very different from all the other dragons, who were green and purple and orange. Dominic was a very special colour….”

            I close my eyes, and I listen to Harry’s voice, and I think of the best day of my life.

 

They woke me before dawn on the morning of my fifth birthday.

            “Mummy,” I groaned as Father lifted me out of bed.

            “Hush, sweetheart. Do you remember what today is?”

            Burrowing against Father’s chest, I asked sleepily, “Is it my birthday?”

            “Yes it is, sweetheart. That’s my clever boy.”

            “It’s too early.”

            “We’re going on a trip,” Father said, and spun me a little. That woke me. My father was not the kind of man to play with me. He would hug me, he would give me a kiss goodnight, but he certainly was not the kind of man to pick me up and swing me about. As Mother threw back the curtains, Father smiled at me. “Would you like to go on a trip?”

            “Is it a present?”

            “It’s part of your present.”

            “Part?” I said, excited.

            “If you are very good, and very well behaved, you’ll see something very, very special. Something that’s just for us. Just for Malfoys. Would you like to see?” I nodded, eager, and Father set me down. “Put on your things. We need to be going.”

            There were new clothes waiting for me. Little black robes, like all my others, only the insides were a silver that shone and glittered against the light. I turned side to side in front of the window, looking at how it sparkled.

            When I went to my mother, frowning, preparing to have my hair straightened, she ran a hand over my curls. “Not today, love. Not if you don’t want to.”

            “Really?” It always stung. I would struggle against it, and Mother had swatted me on the bottom more than once for fidgeting.

            “It’s your birthday,” she said, touching my cheeks. “It’s your special day. We’ll not do anything that you don’t want.”

            “I don’t…have to have marmalade at breakfast?”

            Mother crouched down, managing to still somehow look elegant doing so. Looking from side to side, as if she was keeping a secret, she said, “What about—cake for breakfast?”

            I bounced on my feet. “Oh—yes please!”

            So we had cake for breakfast. Three kinds, as I recall. Chocolate, vanilla, and cherry. Instead of sitting as we usually did, Father at the head of the table, Mother and I facing one another, we all sat on the same side of the table. Mother on my left side, Father on my right. We ate cake, and they told me how good I was. How smart I was.

            I was a spoiled child—remarkably spoiled—but this was still out of the ordinary. All the usual rules seemed to have disappeared. Mother and Father were both so much warmer. I couldn’t stop smiling. And cake for breakfast—what little boy wouldn’t enjoy that?

            There must have been something in the cake, because it didn’t make me ill or leave me hyper. I had finished a large piece, and Father said, “Would you like to see your first present?”

            “Yes please.”

            He took my hand, and we went outside. “Close your eyes,” he instructed. I covered my eyes with my free hand. “ _Accio_ Comet.” I heard something sailing through the air, and then he squeezed my hand. “Open your eyes.”

            When I looked, my jaw dropped. He was holding a broomstick. It wasn’t full sized, but it was much larger than the toy broom I had been riding for as long as I could remember. It gleamed, just like his did. I realized that it was very much a copy of his own.

            Father put the broom into my hand, leaning down. “I had it specially made at the factory for you. No other boy in all of England has one like it. It’s just like mine.”

            “I can—I can ride it?” I said, not quite believing it. None of the other children my age were allowed to ride an adult broom. Even the older brothers and sisters weren’t allowed a real broom until they went to school.

            “If you are very careful, and you stay close to the ground where we can see you at first, I don’t see why not. I expect soon enough you’ll be an excellent flyer. Better than anyone else your age by a long shot. Do you want to try it?”

            I nodded, then I got a bit scared. It was taller than I was by several inches.

            Father smiled at me. “I know you can do it.”

            So I swung my leg over the broom. Swallowing, I pushed off the ground. Immediately, I could tell how much more powerful it was than my toy broom. This was a real, grown up broom. I hovered with my toes a few feet off the ground.

            Father rubbed my back, pointing across the courtyard. “Do you think you can reach Mummy?”

            She stood on the other side, smiling at me encouragingly. I nodded, not believing it, but I didn’t want to let anyone down. Lifting my feet, I put them into the stirrups, and there was a precarious moment where I wobbled.

            I looked at Father to see if he would criticize, but he only smiled. “I’m right here.”

            Taking a sharp breath through my nose, I clutched the broomstick with both hands. This was an actual grown up broom. No one else had one. I had one because I was special.

            Leaning forward, I hesitantly moved forward at a snail’s pace across the first few feet. The broom continued to shake beneath me. It was almost threatening, in its own way.

            Furrowing my brow, I looked down at it and commanded, “Stop that.”

            The trembling lessened considerably. Satisfied, I bit my lip and focused on my mother, slowly but surely picking up speed.

            She gestured me forward with her hands, stepping backwards. “That’s my boy,” she said. “That’s my special boy.”

            “Look at me!” I said, pleased. I pulled higher, and did a careful loop around her.

            Laughing, Mother lifted her hands up, touching my knee. “That’s my big boy. Look at how well you’re doing!”

            I flew a few circles around the courtyard, until Father said, “Time to stop for now, Draco.”

            Pouting, I said, “I thought we were doing what I wanted today.”

            “We’re going on a trip, remember? And if you’re good, you and I will go flying together tonight.”

            “To the river?” I asked, pushing my luck. I wasn’t allowed to go as far as the river.  

            Except Father nodded. “All the way to the river.” With a promise like that, I gladly came down.

            There were more presents—books, toys. I loved them, but what I was intoxicated by was their behaviour. I was so used to my parents treating me with a certain remove. Not like how they treated everybody else, but still, they never hugged and kissed me this much. That day, though, they kept touching my hair, whispering in my ear that I was perfect, that I was good, that I was brilliant.

            Finally, it was time to go. Father carried me down the hill to where an old glove lay on the ground. “You need to hold onto me very tight,” he warned.

            “Are we apparatting?”

            “Apparating,” Mother corrected. “We’re not apparating, sweetheart. We’re doing something else. It’s like apparating. It might be a little scary, but there’s nothing to be afraid of. We’re going to go very, very fast.”

            “Oh, it’s nothing to be afraid of at all,” Father clucked. “You like to go fast, don’t you, Draco?”

            I nodded. I did. When I went flying with Father, I was always pleading with him to speed up.

            “Hold tight to Daddy,” Mother said, and I wrapped my arms around Father’s neck. She put her arms around us both, and then we were being torn through space.

            I gasped, but I kept my eyes open the entire time, even though I felt like they were going to pop out of my head. The world was nothing but streaks, moving past so fast that it felt simultaneously like we were flying and standing in place.

            We came out on the other side, Father and Mother both easily catching their footing. Father pulled me back to check on me. “How was that?”

            Staring at the glove, I asked, “Can we go again?”

            They both laughed, and Father hugged me. “Of course we can. But first—“ He set me down. “Do you want to see your surprise?”

            They led me up a hill, both of them holding my hands. I was so happy—it was such a good day—that every few feet I couldn’t help but skip. Finally, Father just lifted his hand, and I swung between the two of them. I giggled, delighted.        

            Before we crested the hill, Father said, “Now—you have to promise me that you are going to be very good, and listen to everything that we say. There’s going to be a white line, and unless Mummy or I say so, you’re not to cross it. Can you tell me what I said?”

            “Be good. Don’t go over the line unless you or Mummy say I can.”

            “There’s going to be a man there. If he says you can touch, you can. If you can’t touch, no pouting, no complaining. If you behave, maybe you can touch. But you have to be very, very good.”

            “Touch what?”

            I felt Mother tugging on my hand. “Come see.”

            They led me to the top of the hill, and once we got to the crest, my jaw dropped. After a moment, I yelled with delight, “Dominic!”

            There was a massive white dragon tethered to the ground. I couldn’t have identified the species then, but I know now that it was an albino Welsh green. It spread its wings, raising its head to the sky and let out something much like a yawn.

            Pulling on Mother’s hand, I said with excitement, “Mummy, it’s Dominic! Dominic the Dragon!”

            “Yes it is, sweetheart. We’ve brought you to visit Dominic. Would you like to go say hello?”

            “Oh, yes please! Can we? Can we, Mummy?”

            “Come here, then,” Father said, holding out his arms. He picked me up once more, and carried me down the hill.

            A portly man in grey clothes and a cap was fussing around the dragon, scattering something in a bucket. He tugged on his cap at the sight of us. “Mr. Malfoy! Mrs. Malfoy. Pleasure to see you again.”

            “Henderson. Draco, this is Mr. Henderson. Say hello.”

            “How do you do,” I said, but I was too busy looking at the dragon. We were still thirty feet away, but I could see the way its scales glistened. It looked like the insides of my robes.

            “How do you do, young Mr. Malfoy. I see you’re taken with this fellow.”

            “It’s Dominic the Dragon,” I said, looking up at the dragon’s pink eyes. It turned its head, giving me a critical look. I waved. “Hello, Dominic!”

            Henderson guffawed. “He’s not scared of much, is he.”

            Father said proudly, “No, he is not. Shall we have a look about, Draco?” I nodded, straining to get closer.

            We moved about the circle that had been painted around the dragon. It followed my every move with its eyes, twisting to see us. It was chained by the ankle to the ground, and every so often it would open its wings and flap, raising upwards about ten feet or so. I laughed every time I felt the wind from its wings on my face.

            After a while, Henderson said, “He seems to be in a good mood. Why don’t you give him a proper hello?”

            “Let’s do that, shall we?” Father said to me. I didn’t know what that meant, but I nodded. Father carried me across the line, into the circle.

            The dragon curled around like a cat, crouching. It bent its head, coming down to look right at me. We were only a few feet from each other.

            “Hello Dominic,” I said. “My name is Draco. That means dragon. Both our names start with a D.”

            The dragon snuffed, blowing my hair back. I laughed again.

            “Do you want to touch him?” Father asked.

            “Yes, Daddy.”

            So Father carried me forward a few feet, raising me higher. I stretched out my hand, as far as I could. After considering it a moment, the dragon pushed his head forward, into my hand.

            I had not expected how cold it would be. I felt the shift of scales against my skin. Entranced, I petted the dragon’s muzzle. It closed its eyes, and I felt it vibrate. Almost like it was purring.

            “You’re very pretty, Dominic,” I said. “I think you’re prettier than all the other dragons. They’re boring colours. You’re white all over like me.”

            Opening its eyes, the dragon began to nibble on the ends of my fingers.

            Father quickly pulled me away with a laugh. “All right. Let’s not be a meal for the dragon.” He carried me back across the line, even though I whined. He set me down, then said, “I’m going to feed the dragon. If you’re very careful, I might let you as well.”

            So I was very good as he took another bucket from Henderson. He tossed huge chunks of raw meat at the dragon, who snapped them out of the air. I ran to Mother, tugging on her skirt. “Look, Mummy! Mummy, Daddy’s feeding a dragon!” She stroked my hair, and laughed.

            Eventually, Father called me over. I didn’t care that the meat was raw. I took a piece in both hands, and threw it as hard as I could towards the dragon. It landed on the ground about four feet in front of me. The dragon didn’t care, it ate it anyways, and I called excitedly to my mother, “I fed the dragon!”

            We retired to a picnic blanket a little ways from the dragon, still close enough that we could watch it. I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. Father actually removed his coat, and rolled up his sleeves. I had _never_ seen my father do that before.

            Mother said, “Draco, come here.” She held a hand out to me, and I went to her. She and Father sat side by side, and Father took my other hand. Mother touched my face, smiling. “Do you know why we love you?”        

            “Because you’re my Mummy and Daddy.”

            “Yes, sweetheart, but we love you for more than that. We love you, because you are the smartest, cleverest, most beautiful little boy in the whole world. There is no one in the world that we could ever love more than you.”

            “You have no brothers or sisters,” Father said, “because we knew that you were perfect. You are perfect, and you are all we need. I am so proud of you.”

            “We’re both so proud of you. We’ll always be proud of you. You are going to do incredible things. You’re going to be an amazing man.”

            Father squeezed my hand. “Do you understand what we’re saying, Draco? We love you, because you’re special. You are the most important thing in the world. No matter what, you are the most important thing in the world. You deserve everything, and we will get it for you.”

            “Do you understand, sweetheart? Can you tell us what it is we just told you?”

            “You love me because I’m special,” I said obediently.

            With a nod, Mother watched me carefully, “And what else?”

            “I’m smart, and I’m clever, and I deserve everything. You’ll get me everything.”

            “Yes we will,” Father said. “More than anything, you need to remember this about today. Come here, and we’ll tell you.”

            They drew me forward, and I was pulled down into my mother’s lap. Father wrapped his arms around us both, and Mother murmured, “Look at the dragon, sweetheart.”

            Leaning down, Father said quietly in my ear, “We love you. This is the best day. This will always be the best day. We love you so much. You are so special to us. We love you, Draco.”

            I watched the dragon, listening. I smiled, and looked back at them. “I love you, Mummy. I love you, Daddy.”

            Mother kissed the top of my head. “We love you too, darling.” I heard them kiss above me, and I looked at the white dragon, tethered in the field.

            Soon after, Father said, “Time to see the dragon fly away.”

            “No,” I said, disappointed.

            “What does a dragon do, sweetheart?” Mother said.

            Frowning, I answered, “Fly.”

            “That’s right. Come now. Let’s watch.”

            “Remember this,” Father said. “Like the dragon, we rise. That is what Malfoys do. Like the dragon, we rise. Can you say that back to me?”

            “Like the dragon, we rise,” I echoed.

            “Keep saying it.”

            On some signal, Henderson moved forward, and unfastened the chain around the dragon’s leg. It turned in a circle, then opened its wings. Throwing back its head, it let out a cry. Spreading its wings wide, it began to flap, lifting from the ground in great swoops.

            “Like the dragon we rise,” I murmured. “Like the dragon we rise. Like the dragon we rise.”

            It flew straight upwards, and let out a scream that echoed across the sky.

            Twenty five years later, it is still the best day of my life.  


	32. Chapter 32

Once we’ve left the theater, I say to Us, “As an adult, that was absolute shit. I suppose you enjoyed it, though.”

            He sighs. “Naw. We should have just gone to see _Inception_.”

            “How many times have you seen that now?”

            “Three.”

            I think about it, then shrug. “Sure as hell better than those zombie movies. It’s a video game, yes?”

            “Yeah. Video game movies always suck.”

            I give him a hard elbow. “Then why did my not at all well-earned cash go to seeing the bloody thing? And that’s not even a curse this time. That was a lot of blood.”

            He doesn’t reply right off. He’s been pretty somber every time I’ve seen him, but this is above average. Us walks with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, a constant crease between his brow. He looks like he’s aged five years in the last month.

            I thought I’d leave any serious talk until after the movie. If it was fun, it might have loosened him up a little. Unfortunately, the thing was a poorly directed slog. So I’ll work with what I have. “Ty tells me that you are the most well behaved of all his boys this year.”

            Us shrugs. “I’m not riding his balls like the other guys. They’re all being immature little bitches, you ask me.”

            “Thank you for the honesty.”

            “You think they are too?”

            “I think you all are, but you’re teenagers.”

            “I was thinking—if he says it’s okay and everybody says it’s okay—could I not go anymore?”

            Alarmed, I say, “You don’t want to attend meetings?”

            Us takes a deep breath. “They’re for people who need them, right? People who’re not doing their work or getting in trouble or stuff. But the last couple weeks…I haven’t missed a day of school. Haven’t missed a meeting. I’m always in before curfew. Going to the center, to meetings—I feel like I’m taking up time other people need.”

            “And this has nothing to do with how people are behaving towards you.”

            “Well—I could lie and say it doesn’t suck. But it sucks. I just…I don’t feel like I’m getting anything out of it. If I check in with you and that a couple times a week, make sure I’m staying on track, would that be okay?”

            I think about it. I don’t like the idea of him isolating himself. However, he’s right. The meetings are for people who need the help with their schoolwork, and Us has been relentlessly on top of that since the school year began. He’s gotten an A in every one of his assignments so far.

            “Could you let Ty know?” I ask. “Make sure he knows you’re grateful for the effort? And keep going to group therapy?”

            “Yeah.”

            “So on a scale of one to ten, how much do the others hate Ty?”

            “He’s your golden boy, dude. I don’t think I got the heart to tell you.”

            “Well, fuck. I honestly thought—he’s still starting. Of course things are going to be rocky.”

            “They’re just used to you, man. He’s—like every other adult we gotta deal with. Thinks he knows more. I don’t think he means to, but he sorta talks down to us, and he doesn’t get why people are pissed. Just because he used to live here doesn’t mean he remembers what it’s like.” Us leans over. “Did you hear, Richie called him—“

            “I’ve already had words with Richard,” I mutter.

            Us chuckles, then says, “The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires.”

            “Who’s that?”

            “William Arthur Ward. Why don’t you become a teacher?”

            “For fuck’s sake, I’m run ragged from just dealing with a handful of you. What the hell would I do with several hundred?”

            “You could teach everybody instead of just trying to make up for what you did when you were a kid.”

            Raising my brows, I say, “Young man.”

            “You don’t have anything more than that, do you. You know I’m right.”

            “Speaking of school—“

            “When you change the topic, it’s an admission of guilt,” Us says, quoting some of my own words back to me.

            Glaring at him, I say, “Speaking of school.” It’s worth it to see him smile. Really smile. “How’s your sister?”

            Uh oh. That smile evaporated quickly. “Good,” Us says, looking distracted.

            “Have you heard from her?”

            “Yeah. Yeah, she calls every week. Telling me all these things that sound insane.”

            “Is that still bothering you?”

            “No. I mean—it’s crazy and we’re probably both schizophrenics or something, but no. I think I’ve…figured that out as much I’m gonna. Sometimes the things she says, though….” He chews on his lower lip.

            Abruptly, Us comes to a stop. He looks around, obviously struggling with himself. He wants to ask something about magic, that much is clear. I don’t bother prodding him, because if he wants to he will. I wait, crossing my arms.

            “Can we sit down a sec?”

            “Of course.”

            We walk until we reach a bus bench. He sits sideways on it, so I do the same, pulling my legs up under myself. It’s dark out, a bit past nine. It’s getting cooler every day.

            Us frowns deeply, working through what he wants to say before he speaks. “So—Elysha’s school is really old, right. And she was telling me some things about it.”

            “All right.” I try not to let my Hogwarts pride overtake me. Our school is a millennia older than Ilvornmorny, thank you very much.

            “And she said…you can tell me if she’s pulling my leg or something, but…she said the school has ghosts.”

            An electric current goes up my spine. Given what happened earlier this week, it seems quite the coincidence that he’s asking about this topic.

            Us is looking in my eyes, waiting for an answer. “Is that right? Are ghosts real?”

            “They are,” I say carefully.

            He looks despairing for a minute. “Shit. So there’s—there’s like—an _after_? Is God real—“

            I lift my hands. “Whoa. Young man, that is far above my paygrade. I can answer no theological questions, because I haven’t a clue.”

            “But…ghosts.”

            “Yes. Ghosts. They’re very rare. You usually only see them in very old places. Like schools. My school had several. They were very nice for the most part. Well. Save Peeves. And the Bloody Baron.”

            “The—Bloody Baron—“

            I wave him off. “It’s the English. There’s always a murderous baron. Ghosts used to be more common, but they don’t really happen much anymore. I knew loads of people who died in the war, and none of them came back.”

            “The magic war,” Us says, surprising me. “Elysha told me about it. There was a magic war in England. That’s the one, right?”

            “Yes. It is.”

            “And you…fought for the bad guy.”

            “I fought for the worst guy.”

            “She said…he had red eyes and looked like a monster.” He’s looking at me, clearly wanting me to tell him that it’s just childish exaggeration.

            Unfortunately, I’m compulsively honest. “He had red eyes and he _was_ a monster. He lived in my house.”

            “But like…your parents fought for him too, right?”

            “My father did. My mother was—pragmatically neutral. She played both sides.”

            “And he’s in jail for that.”

            “He is.”

            Us thinks a moment, then he says, “You know my dad’s in jail too, right?”

            We’ve never spoken about this. I tried, but he just laughed me off. “I do.”

            “I’ve never been to…see him. He went in before I was born. I ain’t never even met him. I don’t think I want to. And my mom—my grams told you that story, right?”

            “She did.”

            Shaking his head, Us says, “They didn’t give a shit about me, man. They just cared about getting high. I’m lucky I didn’t end up brain damaged. Then Mom shows up five years later with Elysha, passes her off to Grams, and she’s gone again. I thought—I thought Elysha being so weird, it’s because she was a crack baby or something. That’s what the other kids used to call us. Crack babies.” He shakes his head, saying with a straight face, “Shows what they know. My parents liked heroin.”

            I show a smile, because I’ve a dark sense of humor.

            “But Elysha, she’s…she’s special.”

            “And you’re brilliant. Remember that—“

            Us waves a hand. “I’m not jealous or anything. I don’t think I could have handled any of that when I was her age. They probably would have kicked me out. It’s cool, I got my own things. But—when she told me about those ghosts, man—“

            He gives me a look, and I know what he wants to say.

            I sigh through my nose. “Have you seen anything?”

            Grimacing, Us admits, “No.”

            “Like I said, it doesn’t really happen anymore. Non magic users—regular people—they don’t become ghosts. I don’t think that they can. People just...go on instead of sticking around, and that’s for the best—“

            “I get this feeling sometimes though. Like somebody—like somebody’s staring at me. Whenever I’m alone—and I get that you’re gonna say it’s grief or something, and—yeah, it’s probably grief or something, but it doesn’t just happen when I’m alone. I’ll be at school, or walking down the street, and I’ll feel it.” He taps the back of his neck. “Hairs raising. Like someone’s watching.”

            “Do you want to know what I think it is?”

            Slumping, Us says, “Grief or something?”

            “I really think it’s grief or something,” I agree.

            “Yeah. Yeah, I know you’re right. I heard that, though, the thing about the ghosts, and…I mean, there’s only so much my brain can _handle_. I think I see weird things everywhere. I mean, what’s next? Loch Ness Monster?” I bite my lip, and Us glares at me. “Don’t. Don’t tell me the Loch Ness Monster is real.”

            I clear my throat.

            “Shit! The Loch Ness Monster is _real_?”

            “There’s a lot of things that are real. A lot of things that aren’t real.”

            “Aliens? Are there aliens?”

            “How would I know?”

            “How could you _not_?” he exclaims.

            I smile. It’s the most engaged he’s seemed in a while. “Give me a list. I’ll tell you. Real or not.”

            Us thinks. “Sasquatch?”

            “Real.”

            “Elves?”

            “Real, but they’re not the ethereal Tolkienesque beings you’d imagine.”

            “Is Biggie still alive?”

            “Yes, and he’s living in Dubai.”

            “Get the fuck _out_.”

            “I’m lying, I don’t actually know about that one.”

            He punches me in the arm, and we both laugh.

 

“Us asked me about ghosts.”

            Harry looks stricken. “Of course he did.”

            I’m on my couch, still in my pajamas, with a cup of coffee in my hands. It’s nine in the morning, and I don’t need to be at work for another hour and a half. It’s nice to start the morning off like this—with a bit of a chat, relaxed.

            “What do you mean, of course?”

            “You didn’t—first time that someone you knew died, you didn’t ask about ghosts?”

            I shake my head. “No. I already knew about ghosts.”

            “Right. Well, for those of us who weren’t part of the magical world from the moment of conception, it’s apparently a normal reaction. After Sirius died, I went to Nick and asked him.”

            “Nick?”

            “Nearly Headless Nick.”

            “Ah, yes.”

            “He said that people, when they lose someone, they came to see him. To ask if the someone would come back. They almost never do.”

            “I’ve a macabre question for you.”

            “Shoot.”

            “Have there been any hauntings as a result of the war?”

            Harry thinks about it. He’s in a dirty, torn jumper, just come in from his shed. There’s a bit of dirt smudged on the side of the face, but I rather like it there, so I haven’t said anything. Hair a magnificent disaster, but I lied and said it looked fine.

            “Four that I know of.”

            Reluctant, I ask, “Anyone I would…know?”

            He sort of freezes. Scratching his neck, Harry goes, “Umm….”

            “Jesus. Who?”

            “You really don’t want to—“

            “Harry. Who?”

            With an unhappy sigh, Harry admits, “Your, uh…aunt…has been seen around Hogwarts.”

            Holy shit. It’s a good thing my mug is sitting in my lap or I would have dropped it. “Are you—are you telling me that Bellatrix Lestrange—is still terrorizing people? Only now it’s children at _Hogwarts_?”

            Harry’s quick to say, “They seem to have her mostly under control. They’re working on a way to get her out entirely. It’s still an early haunting, though. She’ll show up for a few seconds, screeching about mudbloods—sorry. Sorry, I know you don’t like when I say that. She’ll basically do her best to scare the piss out of the children before disappearing again for a month.” He sighs. “But it’s early days. Give her ten years or so, and if they don’t figure something out, she might set up full time residence.”

            Covering my eyes, I take a few deep breaths. I thought they’d all gone on. All the nightmares from my childhood. They were supposed to be in the dark, facing endless torment.

            “Draco? All right?”

            “Not all right,” I reply, dropping my hand. “Harry, I’m so sorry.”

            Confused, he asks, “What are you sorry for?”

            “She killed your godfather, and she’s not been punished, and I am absolutely mortified. Please accept my humblest, and most abject apologies on behalf of my family.”

            The bastard smiles. “Behalf of your family, my left arse cheek. Your parents certainly wouldn’t give a damn. I imagine they might be rather pleased by the knowledge. You’re apologizing on behalf of yourself, and there’s no need. You didn’t have anything to do with her—failure to leave.”

            “God. I shouldn’t have asked.” After a moment, I say, “Anyone else?”

            Harry starts to laugh. “Draco, I’m not going to tell you—“

            “No, just—tell me. Please.”

            “No one that you’d know. There was a third year Ravenclaw named Cassidy Columbine. She’s been seen around, but she just offers to help people with their homework. A man from the Ministry, he keeps showing up to work. The thing is, no one could remember his name. Everyone was like—oh yeah, he’s worked here for decades— _what’s_ his name? Oh, Merlin’s beard, I can’t even remember it now. And the last is a woman in Hogsmeade—ah, Olivia Abbleford. Couldn’t bear to leave her kids. And that, so far as I know, is the extent of our war-related hauntings.”

            “Only one Death Eater,” I say with some measure of relief. “Of course, it had to be Bellatrix. At _Hogwarts_.”

            “McGonagall will have it sorted. It’ll be fine.” Harry hesitates, then asks, “There was some news this week from Azkaban. Do you have any interest?”

            Propping my head up, I reply, “Not particularly, but since I’ve already found out my aunt is still roaming the earth being wretched, I don’t know that you could tell me anything worse.”

            “Alycto Carrow died.”

            I wait a moment, then I shrug. “And the world rejoiced?”

            “There was a bit of that, yes.”

            “Why on earth do you look guilty?”

            “Well…celebrating because someone died….”

            “Oh, I know you’re not above it. Do you want permission? I’ll give you permission.”

            “No, just….” Harry shrugs, sticking a hand in his hair. “I was at the Burrow, and people toasted, and I—I thought of your father, actually.”

            Surprised, I say, “What about him? God, your feelings towards him haven’t changed, have they?”

            “No. No, I think a reversal of opinion on one Malfoy might be my lifetime quota. Except—he’s your father.”

            “And?” I really don’t see what the issue is here.

            Harry waffles, then says, “I just don’t like the idea of you unhappy, is all.”

            Damn him. He really, really needs to stop saying things like that, because it sets my poor heart beating something terrible—no. No, no, no. We’re not playing that game.

            I drawl, “Isn’t that sweet of you, Harry. I’m touched.”

            He looks relieved that I’m taking the piss. “Yes, I’m doing my best to touch you.” His eyes widen, then squeeze shut. “I mean! No! No, that was not what I meant—you know what I was trying to say—“

            “Do I? Am I your type, Harry?”

            “Don’t start with me—“

            “I rather think I am. I know you like them blonde, a bit of a mouth on them—“

            Putting his face in his hands, Harry begs, “Please stop.”

            I do, but only because I’m trying to push him back as fast as I can with embarrassment to disguise my own. “As it stands, Harry, don’t shed a tear for poor Lucius. I’m sure he’s fine.”

            Dropping his hands, trying to gather himself, Harry asks, voice strained, “You hear from your mother about him?”

            “When she writes, yes.”

            “In an effort to get…as far from the previous topic as possible…can I ask you something?”

            “Sure.”

            “I’ve, ah—I’ve asked you about this before, and you didn’t want to discuss it. It’s fine if you don’t. I mean, it’s early there, you probably don’t want to—“

            “For fuck’s sake, stop prevaricating. If you want to be nosy, be nosy. Ask your question.”

            Harry looks like he wishes he hadn’t gone down this avenue, but I guess he prefers this to me asking if I’m his type. I am, though. I already know that. “I wanted to know…what Azkaban was like.” It comes out almost a question.

            I look at him a long moment, then say, “You’re right, that’s a terrible thing to talk about this early in the morning.”

            “I knew it, I’m sorry—“

            “I’ll still tell you, though.”

            “You don’t—“

            “Harry, shut up, and I’ll tell you about when I went to visit my father in Azkaban. That’s what you want to know, right? Just say you’re curious, even though it’s none of your business, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

            He takes a breath, then admits, “I’m curious, even though it’s none of my business, and I’d like to hear all about it.”

            “You nosy prick, who do you think you are?”

            “Fuck off,” he laughs.

            I smile slightly, but it doesn’t last. How could it?

            “Very well. Azkaban.”


	33. Chapter 33

It took my mother two years to convince me to visit my father. Two years of sheer, unrelenting effort on her part. She would discuss little else any time we spoke. She sent letter after letter, pleading with me. My father was allowed the one visit a year from a family member. She had gone every time she could after she was released—it was the only time she left the manor. She aimed to have me visit him the year I was twenty six. I refused. She tried when I was twenty seven. I refused.

            When I was twenty eight, after her endless barrage, after periods of not speaking to her from sheer frustration, I agreed.

            It was ten years since I last saw him. Even I had to reason that was a very long time. He was my father. No matter what had happened between us, I owed him at least this.

            Once I agreed, it was a three month process to be approved. Had I been in England, it would have been less, but I refused to divulge my location, and that caused some bureaucratic roadblocks. Then there was a scandal where some of the guards in Azkaban leaked information to the press, and my insistence on privacy was given a little more leeway than it might have previously.

            So I took the International Floo all the way to the Orkney Islands. I could have gone through Hull, but I’ve no intention of ever returning to England. The Orkneys was more than close enough.

            I needed a few minutes to orient myself—an hour on the floo is like being on a carnival ride that refuses to let you go and is intent on your demise—but I had arrived the same day I meant to return. I had given in, yes, but some promises could not be broken.

            I changed in the bathroom, leaving my things in a locker. At the time, my hair was long on top, and kept about two inches on the back and sides, enough to cover my scar. I pulled my hair into a ponytail, but I did not straighten it. I wore a black suit. The only colours anyone is allowed to wear to Azkaban are black and white. I wore my muggle suit, with stainless steel cufflinks Derrell gave me for my birthday.

            No one in my real life knew I was going to see my father in prison. I said that I was seeing the dentist. Given how much sugar I consumed, they easily believed that. I had spent weeks preparing myself for the others—for the people who would know who and what I was, without any lies to protect me.

            The terminal to Azkaban was locked. Two Aurors stood before it. As I walked up to them, I saw them exchange a glance. In that one look, I saw something I’d not seen in six years. Disgust. My due as a Malfoy, of course.

            I set my wand on the desk, then pulled out my papers. “Good morning. Draco Malfoy to see Lucius Malfoy. I hope everything is in order.”

            They both looked a bit younger than me. The shorter one finally stepped forward, not being very careful with my offered papers. “Draco Malfoy,” he said, with as common an accent I’d heard in a long time. Like all his th’s would be replaced with f’s.

            I nodded. “Is everything in order?”

            He looked through the papers a while longer, before holding them out to me. “At last. You’ll be in Azkaban.”

            The words had their intended effect. I was chilled, even if I did not show it. The Aurors turned and did a complex spell together. The door actually melted away into the walls instead of opening. They held it open, and the second one nodded me forward. “Go if you’re going,” he said.

            I slipped my papers into the inner pocket of my coat, taking my wand, and moved into the tunnel.

            As soon as I was inside, the entry closed behind me. I was left alone, in a long hall with dim lights. I was nervous—of course I was. Instead of letting on, I straightened my tie and walked down the hallway.

            After years of visiting Roderick in jail, and a lifetime of magical bureaucracy, I was well prepared for the trials that came next. Over the next hour, I went through tunnel after tunnel, and at the end of each would be another face etched with disdain who would go through my papers, search me, examine my wand. I kept a blank face, and did not so much as blink when one woman hissed, “You should be in there with him,” and spit at my feet.

            At last, I came out into a dingy room with faded green walls. A man sat in a ratty armchair, reading a John le Carre novel. When I came through the door, he stood, with a little smile on his face. He had a fringe of hair around his lower head, but a magnificent mustache to make up for it. I stood nearly a foot taller than him.

            “Mr. Malfoy,” he said, holding out a hand. “I’m Mortimer Prang. We’ve spoken through your mother.”

            I shook his hand. It was astonishingly strong. “Mr. Prang. A pleasure, sir.”

            “You’re a bit early. I think that might be the first time I’ve ever said that, these last ten years.”

            “I do my best, sir.”

            “I know you’ve signed the agreement already, but we’re going to go over the rules one more time, so that there are no misunderstandings.”

            “Of course, Mr. Prang.”

            “You will surrender your wand to me in this room. It will be kept in a safe location until your return. Once we leave this room, you will obey every order that you are given by myself or any Auror on the premises of the facility. If you are given contradicting orders, you will obey the order given by myself. At all times you will be monitored by a guard. You will not give anything to the prisoner. You will not be allowed to take anything from the prisoner. You are allowed to touch the prisoner, but if the guard suspects a transfer of objects is being made, the visit will be terminated and you will not be permitted to ever return to the facility. While on facility grounds, you will submit to any request for a full body search. If you hear a siren, you will immediately go to the guard and follow their instructions. If you hear anyone making statements about escaping the facility, you are legally bound to report this to myself or to the closest available Auror. Apparating is forbidden within the facility. Failure to abide by any of these rules will result in an automatic five year sentence, and you will not leave the island until your time is up. I rather imagine you’d like to leave Azkaban by the end of today, Mr. Malfoy.”

            “I would.”

            “Do you have any issue with the rules I’ve relayed to you?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Good. Finally, if you are attacked by any of the prisoners and need to use terminal force, you will not be prosecuted. It shouldn’t come to that, though. The ratio of guards to prisoners is two to one. Everyone is very closely watched on the island.”

            I nodded, and said, “Good.”

            “Your wand, please.” I passed it over without any hesitation. He went to the wall, opening up a cupboard. He set it inside, and said, “Wands,” then shut it. He gave it a brief open again, and the wand had disappeared. Walking over to me, Prang said, “You’ve never been to the island before.”

            “No.”

            “It’s as bad as people say,” Prang said bluntly. “If not worse. Guests are allotted two hours, but three quarters leave after thirty minutes. We have few Dementors left at Azkaban, but—it’s enough.” He looked up at me. “No shame in leaving early, if you can’t bear it.”

            I gave a nod. I’d told myself that repeatedly over the last few weeks.

            Withdrawing his wand, Prang flicked it at me. I was suddenly warming at an alarming rate. “Trust me,” he said. “You’ll need it.” He put away his wand, then raised an arm. “If you’re ready, then.”

            I wasn’t. I took his arm.

 

We came out on a chunk of rock that was so slippery I nearly fell into the sea. Prang latched onto my elbow with his impressive grip, and I steadied myself. With a swallow, I raised my head.

            Azkaban.

            It rose at least twenty stories above the water, perched on an outcropping of rock that looked like it might collapse at any moment. The building was sheer, nothing marring the outside walls except an occasional slit that served for a window. We were a hundred meters away, and I could see no door at the base. I could see no entrance to that great black block, rising towards the grey sky.

            Even with the warming charm, I began to shiver. The wind lashed us about, and all the colours surrounding us seemed muted. Everything around us was shades of grey. The waves rose and fell, splashing at our feet.

            Still holding onto me, Prang lifted his wand, and hollered into the air, “Three seventeen forty-six!”

            Nothing happened at first. I said nothing. I knew I was not expected to speak in this place unless I was spoken to. And I did not want to speak. I could feel this— _thing_ —beginning to weigh on me.

            A motion from the sky caught my gaze. A ripple of black fabric.

            For a moment, my knees began to buckle as the memories came flooding back. The manor—I’d gone outside to try and escape the insanity within—they came for me—they all came for me—

            I returned to the present as Prang asked with concern, “Still with us, Mr. Malfoy?”

            I was a visitor here. I was not a prisoner. Home. I had a home and friends and this would last two hours at most. Nodding, I squared my shoulders. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

            “Happy memories,” he told me. “If you have them, hold onto them. Here’s our ride, then.”

            A small rowboat came across the water, unmanned, buffeted relentlessly by the waves. If I thought I was already damp and cold, I didn’t think I’d be much better off by the time we reached the island.

            I was right. We were both soaked through by the time we made land, such as it was. The bottom of the boat was filled with about four inches of icy water. Mustache plastered over his mouth, Prang said, “This way.”

            I stepped onto the island.

            We walked up a steep set of stairs carved into the rock. At any moment I felt like I would fall and dash in my brains and be swallowed by the sea. Prang did not falter, as if he was walking on dry, flat ground.

            When we reached the top of the stairs, we were suddenly faced with the black, smooth wall of the prison. It showed no sign of wear, no sign of the sea that had surrounded it for centuries. It was as black and unmarred as the day it had been made. When that was, I cannot say. They do not teach us much about Azkaban in the magic world. Better to leave it to the imagination. A prison of the mind, as they like to call it.

            Prang walked forward, and with very little fuss knocked on the wall. I stood behind him, arms wrapped around myself and teeth chattering. We waited a few seconds, then cracks began to appear in the wall. Slowly, they formed a door. Once it was complete, Prang simply pushed it open. And so we walked inside.

            “Welcome to Azkaban,” he said to me.

            The cold became even worse. I pushed my teeth together, too distracted to take in my surroundings. Fortunately, he performed a drying charm on the both of us. Once that was done, I very carefully straightened out my clothes, then took a look about.

            We were in an empty hall that was lit by two braziers. It wasn’t much. It seemed like the light was swallowed about three inches from its source. The walls were damp stone. As soon as I listened for it, I heard the echoes of screams.

            “Visitation happens on the fortieth floor,” Prang said, and led me forward.

            “How many floors are there?” I said, because I suddenly felt that I had to say something, anything, lest I lose my voice forever.

            “We’ve not yet discovered them all,” he replied.

            We went to a platform at the end of the hall, the way lit by his wand. I wondered where the other people were—the Aurors. I had thought that they would guard the door. It did not occur to me that perhaps they were there, only I could not see them. Once we stepped on the platform, Prang pointed his wand at our feet. “Fortieth floor.”

            I startled as we moved backwards, through the wall. The world disappeared, and we travelled through the dark. First backwards, then upwards, but diagonally. We came to a sudden stop that almost threw me off my feet, into God knows what, and then moved forward. To be on the safe side, I sat down, not giving a damn about what that might look like. I wasn’t going to be hurled into the inner workings of Azkaban due to the usual magical disregard for safety.

            We rose ever higher in a zigzagging pattern, as if travelling through some maze that moved upwards. More than once we were confronted by a face of some mad person, who would begin to lunge for us, only to disappear a moment later. _If this is the lift_ , I thought, _I don’t know that I want to see the cells_.

            Finally, we came to a stop. There were more lights than seemingly the rest of the place combined. They lined the walls, glowing silver.

            Prang gestured me onwards, but did not move himself. At the end of the hallway, I could see a guard facing an open doorway, but nothing more. Apparently I was meant to go on alone.

            Very well.

            I walked down the hallway, my steps echoing almost unbearably. When I looked down, I could see cracks in the floor. Through one, I saw a woman’s yellowed eyes. “Help me,” she pleaded. I raised my head, resolving not to look down again.

            When I reached the guard, I discovered that he was familiar. My age—someone from Hogwarts? I couldn’t place him. He barely met my eyes, just nodding roughly towards the room awaiting me. It was behind bars, the door hanging open. Here I was, at last.

            _Happy memories_ , I reminded myself, and rounded the corner, looking inside.

            It held nothing more than a table and two chairs. It had one of the first windows I had seen, but it was no more than two inches across, two feet high. The floor was stained in the corner with something dark, but I paid it very little attention. All I really saw was my father.

            I knew it was him—of course it was him—but my mind refused to believe it. This skeletal, grey man hunched over the table was not Lucius Malfoy. He couldn’t be. His white hair was shorn to only an inch long, and he wore clothes that hung off his emaciated form, yellowed with age. His lips were nearly bitten raw, moving quick and silent. It couldn’t be him.

            Only he raised his head, and I saw his eyes—silver, like mine—and there was no one else he possibly could be.

            His face began to crumple. He mouthed something, but I could not tell what it was. I thought faintly of that notion I’d had—that if I did not speak, this place would steal my voice—and I wondered if it was true. I could not move a moment.

            Setting his hand down on the table, Father pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, and took a step towards me. So I stepped towards him, and realized I was holding onto the bars. Without saying a word, he held his arms out to me.

            I went to him, and when he put his arms around me, he gasped. I was shocked—I had known he would be different, but I had not counted on my father being so fragile. He felt like I could snap him in half if I was not careful.

            “Draco,” he rasped. “My son.” I felt his hands on the back of my head, touching my shoulders, my neck—making sure that I was real. “My son.”

            He began to weep. I held him as close and as carefully as I was able, and I had no idea what I was supposed to feel.

 

He could not let go of my hands. We sat across the table from one another, our hands joined in the middle. His skin clung to bone, and his nails had been bitten to the quick, dark with blood.

            “What do they feed you?” I asked, horrified by the sight of him.

            His cheekbones nearly pierced his skin, and his eyes were sunken. He had a hard time keeping his eyes on one thing, gaze constantly darting.

            “Poison,” he spat out.

            “Poison?” I echoed. I looked to the guard outside the cell. He gave his head a slight shake, then gave the side of his head a tap, averting his eyes.

            “Everything here is…is poison.”

            “Father—you have to eat.”

            “Poison—“

            “Is it better to be poisoned or starve to death? If you don’t eat, you’ll starve to death.”

            He glanced at my eyes, a horrible grin twisting his mouth. “You sound like your mother.”

            “And she’s a smart woman, isn’t she. Listen to Mother. Listen to me. Eat. If only to spite them.”

            Father gave his head a shake. “I’m—I’m in a—terrible state. Am I not?”

            “I would not call this your best, no.”

            He let out a soft snort, and seemed surprised by himself. “We don’t…we don’t laugh here. We don’t…see the sky or feel the ground or….” Closing his eyes, Father began murmuring to himself.

            Squeezing his hands, I leaned forward. “Father.”

            He opened his eyes, blinking at me owlishly. “You’re truly here—aren’t you? I’m not hallucinating again, am I?”

            “You hallucinate?”

            “We all do. It happens…once you’ve not seen anyone for two weeks. The fourteenth day, you begin to see people. People who are dead. People who could not be here. We’ve had some good chats, you and I.” Father shook his head. “Only that wasn’t real. This is real. This is real, is it not?”

            “It is.”

            “How long has it been?” Before I could answer, he said, “Ten years. Has it really been ten years?”

            “It has.”

            He gave my hands a small jostle. “Well. Well. Look at you. See how fine you look.” His eyes narrowed. “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?”

            I smiled crookedly. “What are _you_ wearing?”

            “Poison,” Father said. “The cloth—it’s poison. They coat the insides—“

            “I’m wearing a suit,” I said, to cut him off. “I’m only wearing a suit, Father.”

            “Why are you wearing that filthy muggle garb?”

            Sighing, I said, “Father—please. Let’s not fight.”

            “I don’t…I don’t understand why you’re wearing that.”

            “Because it fits me and I look rather dashing in it. That’s why.”

            “Ten years—could you have not put in a little effort when you came?”

            I had to take a deep breath. He was half mad—or all mad—after a decade in Azkaban. Patience needed to be my mantra. “What are your days like?” I asked. “What do you do?”

            “Do?” Father said with a demented chuckle. “Do, we…I wake up and it is neither day nor night, it’s…time passes so strangely. Your mother…sends books. Except I am allowed one book a month. She does not listen.”

            “I know. You should see all the things she tries to send me by courier. So you read?”

            “I’ve told her, get me large books. Get me large books, because if I’m reading they will give me some light. But she does not listen, and when I’m done—when I am done they take away the light—“

            “I’ll talk to her,” I said soothingly, giving his wrist a rub. “I’ll tell her to send large books.”

            “They let me send letters once a month. So I—in my head, I write what I want to say. I write over and over again until I know every word, every nuance…only sometimes I forget. Sometimes the day comes and I look at the page and it is as though I cannot remember what words are.” He looked at me desperately. “They are trying to break me.”

            I did not have the heart to tell him they had long since succeeded. “But you’re stronger than that, aren’t you.”

            Uncertain, Father nodded. “Yes. I’m…Lucius Malfoy. That means something. Sanctimonia…Vincet—“

            “No, not like that.”

            “No?”

            Squeezing his hands gently, I said, “Like the dragon, we rise.”

            He stared at me, then smiled. This time, his smile was not so frightening. “Like the dragon, we rise,” he agreed with a nod.

            Like that, he leaned forward, and rested his head in my hands. Startled at first, I felt my heart break a little. I knew this man. I knew him like few others ever could. Nonetheless, I stroked his hair, and we were silent a long while.

 

“Your mother says you’re a teacher.”

            I barked. “No.”

            “I thought not,” Father said. “She has a habit of believing what she likes, does she not?”

            “I’d say it’s more of a family trait.”

            He frowned, but only briefly. “What do you do with your time?”

            “My time is always filled.” I did not want to upset him, but I had come here determined to tell the truth as much as I was able. “I’ve the two jobs.”

            “Jobs,” Father said, as if the word was distasteful.

            “Yes. I spend much of my time working with disadvantaged young men.”    

            “Good,” he said, “that will look good.”

            I rankled, then braced myself. “And I work in a shop.”

            Father gazed at me. “A…shop.”

            “Yes, Father.”

            “Whatever for? Your mother said you took your money—“

            “Because I like to feel useful. If Mother wants the money back, that’s fine, I can make do without.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous, you’ll not be a pauper. What sort of— _shop_?”

            “A tattoo shop,” I said evenly.

            It had been long years since I faced the full force of my father’s most disapproving gaze, but I was far more equipped now to deal with it. After a moment, he looked down, and his eyes narrowed. “What is that on your arms?”

            I sighed. I knew better than to argue. I shrugged out of my jacket, draping it over the back of my chair. Taking off my cufflinks, I showed them to the guard so that he could see what I was doing, then slipped them into my pocket. I began to roll up my sleeves.

            Father sat back, disgust colouring his expression. “What in Salazar’s _name_ —“

            I did not stop until I had rolled both sleeves up to my elbows. I was cold, but I was relieved to see my tattoos. They were bright, the only colour I had seen since apparating onto the ocean. I could see the disapproval on the guard’s face, but unless anyone said anything, I was not going to roll my sleeves down.

            Crossing my arms, I said, “I’m sorry to hear you disapprove.”

            “Disapprove—those are _muggle_ markings—“

            I held up my left forearm. “As I recall, weren’t you pleased when I got _this_ mark? After all, you’d one of your own.”

            Father blanched. “I was not…I was _here_ when you were marked—I would not have—“

            “When you returned, what was it that you said to me? How proud you were of me, that I’d taken his mark. That we were united in purpose now, forever.”

            “Draco—“

            “I choose my own marks now, regardless of the opinions of others. I make my own decisions, regardless of the opinions of others.”

            “But—muggle markings—“

            “Father, I live with muggles. I work with muggles.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous—“

            “I’ve not lived with magic kind since I left the manor. I’ve nothing to do with witches and wizards, and that’s the truth of it. No matter what Mother might have told you. I know she has a tendency to gild the truth.”

            Father shook his head, aghast. “This is not the truth.”

            “Have you no regrets?” I asked. I knew he had been battered and broken by his time here, but I had to know. I had questions, and this was the only opportunity I would have to ask him. Maybe ever. “After all this time here—in this place—do you feel no regrets?”

            “Of course I do—“

            “For what you _did_. Not that you got caught. Not that you ended up here. Do you have no qualms about what you did to people?”

            “What I—Draco, I am your father—“

            “And I’m a grown man. A grown man who has had many years to think, who has seen more than—more than I would wish upon anyone. I want to know. I want to know if you’re sorry.”

            Perplexed, Father said, “Sorry? Sorry for what—“

            I burst out, “You—“ I lowered my voice. I would not make a scene for the guard to report to the papers. I looked my father in the eyes, and kept my voice barely above a murmur. “You tortured children.”

            “I did no such thing—“

            “Do you not remember that family after the World Cup? All four of them—the mother, the father, their two children—you put them on display. That’s the only time I saw you hurt children, but God only knows how many others there were. You _violated_ them.”

            “They were muggles—“

            “They were _people_.” I shook my head, disgusted. “God. God, you really don’t feel it, do you. All these years—all that’s happened, and it’s not even occurred to you that you did anything wrong.”

            “Of course I acted—badly.” I rolled my eyes, and Father said, “Do not look at me like that. I am your father, you will listen to me—“

            “Why?”

            “What—what do you mean, why?”

            “I mean, I spent the first two thirds of my life listening to you, and I did things—I believed things—that cannot be forgiven. Because you told me they were true. I will spend the rest of my life trying to live with that knowledge. That I was too weak to see what was right, that instead I listened to what you told me and it is a _miracle_ that I did not end up in here with you. There are days I think I should have—“

            Father slammed his hands on the table, and the guard pushed off the wall an inch. “Do not say that!” Father said, wild eyed. “Do not say that you should be here—you did nothing—nothing that could not be….”

            Unmoved, I said, “I nearly killed people. I tried to kill people. I helped Death Eaters into Hogwarts. People died because of my actions. Because I was trying to make you proud. And I probably did. And that’s what is so fucking sick about this whole mess.”

            I had to rub a hand over my face. Father said helplessly, “Draco….”

            Dropping my hand, I said, “I didn’t come here to fight with you. I came because Mother has begged me to for years. But I don’t want there to be any illusions about my thoughts or opinions. I spent long enough doing what you and Mother expected of me. I love you, I will always love you, but I’ll never forgive you. I’ll never forgive you for the things you’ve done.”

            He bent forward, and I struggled not to lean away. He looked so desperate. It was pitiful, and it turned my stomach. “Do not say that. I’m your father. I love you. All I did, I did for you—“

            “All you did was to gain power. You cannot look me in the eyes and tell me you love me more than power.”

            “Of course I do,” Father said fiercely.

            “I don’t believe you. You did what you could to further our name. I was a pawn. I know that you love me, but I was never the most important thing to you.”

            “That is _not_ true.”

            “Don’t lie to me. I know you.”

            “I’ve loved you more than anyone ever has or ever will. You are paramount—“

            “I’m gay,” I said flatly. “Tell me you love me now.”

            He glanced immediately towards the guard, checking to make sure he’d not heard.

            Nodding, I said, “I thought as much.” I started to stand.

            Father’s hand shot out. “No, Draco—Draco, stay. Stay, Draco, stay, stay, please stay.”

            I looked at my father, at his pleading face. I reminded myself that I was the only face he would see for a year, save his captors. Taking a deep breath, I settled back into my seat.

            Father crossed his arms on the table, leaning almost flat across them, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Draco—I understand that—certain compulsions—“

            “Being gay is not a compulsion—“

            “Stop saying—“

            “It is part of who I am. It is unchangeable.”

            “Nothing is unchangeable. We adapt. It is what Malfoys do.”

            “Then you’ll concede that someday your archaic attitude toward my sexuality will change—“

            “Stop saying—“

            “ _No_. I am a Malfoy. I am unashamed of who I am, no matter how you might try to shame me for that. I am immoveable. I am not a man who compromises my integrity. You will not change my mind, you will only further convince me that I am right.”

            Father closed his eyes, tapping his fingertips on the table for close to ten seconds. “Your mother,” he said quietly, “told me you said something…similar…when you left.”

            “What else did she tell you?”

            “Only that she was convinced you would return. And you _will_. Of course you will return—“

            “I’ll never return to England. I will _never_ return to the manor—“

            “Do you think you suffered there?” he snapped. “Do you know—do you think you truly know what suffering is?”

            “Yes,” I answered. “I do not claim it is the same way that you have suffered here. I would not dare. But you deserve this.”

            His mouth fell open. Jaw quivering, Father said, “You don’t—“

            “You deserve your sentence. I deserved mine. Mother deserved hers. We were the monsters in the story. We were the villains. All of us got what we deserved. I am trying to live a life better than that which I lived so that I can simply—look myself in the mirror. But we deserved our fates. All of us.”

            “You cannot—you cannot hate me this much—“

            Sighing, I said, “I do not hate you. I admit…I did hate you. For a long time, I hated you more than you will ever know. But there is an inescapable fact. You are my father. And I will always love you. No matter what you’ve done.”

            He reached out, taking my hand. I let him, even though I didn’t want to. He was cold and his skin was clammy and he was a part of this place now. I did not know that he would ever be otherwise. “Draco,” Father said with a queasy smile. “Draco—you will forgive me. You’ll come home—“

            “No,” I whispered. “I am sorry, but no.”

            “The family needs you. The manor needs you—“

            “I needed a family that loved me more than the idea of family. If you’d another child—if Mother had been able—“

            “We only wanted you, you were the only—“

            “Mother was unable to have any more children. I know this. Stop lying to me. If you had another son or daughter, you would not bother with me now. The only reason you plead with me is because you want an heir. I will not give you that.”

            He dropped his head a moment, then added his other hand to mine. “It is not impossible,” he murmured. “You would not be the first with these—inclinations—with our name. They all did their duty, though. You have a duty, as a Malfoy—“

            “Mother didn’t tell you.”

            “Tell—me what?”

            “When I left. What I told her.” I disentangled my hand from his. I pushed back from the table a few inches, so that he was not within reach. “I said that I would give you no heirs. That was my revenge upon you both.”

            Father was trembling. “This is…I understand you are upset, that you—“

            “But it did occur to me that neither of you would take no for an answer. So I took measures.”

            He stared at me, horrified. “What on earth do you mean?”

            “I started with a muggle procedure. A vasectomy. Sterilized myself. But then it occurred to me that Mother might find a way around that. Her new house elf is rather sneaky.” Wrapping my arms around myself, I scuffed at the floor. “So I resorted to magical means. Foolproof. There will be no more Malfoys. I am the last.”

            For a moment, I thought Father might have a heart attack. Instead, he began to smile again. “You are joking, aren’t you. You’re upset—I can tell, you’re upset—we’re all upset here—but you don’t mean it. This is a trick. There are always tricks here. People say things—they do things—but they aren’t real. This isn’t real.”

            “Father—“

            “It is not real,” he insisted. “You will be lord of Malfoy Manor. There will be children. I will come home, and there will be children. They will look like your mother. They will look like you.” His voice started to rise, becoming hysterical. “Everything—everything will be as I imagine—“

            He was gone. I could see it in his eyes. I began to roll down my sleeves as he spoke frantically about what life would be like when he emerged from Azkaban. It sounded beautiful, in a way. And terrible too.

            By the time I put my cuff links on and picked up my jacket, Father wasn’t even in the room anymore. Not really. He was rocking back and forth, lost in his own visions. I stood up, and he didn’t even notice. I put on my jacket, and went around the table.

            Wrapping my arms around his shoulders, I kissed his head. “I love you,” I murmured. “I’m sorry.”

            He patted my arm, and said, “There will be children. Beautiful children. And you will be a better father than I ever was.”

            I closed my eyes, and gave him one more kiss before I left. He did not notice me go.

            Like everyone else save the prisoners and the guards, I only lasted a half hour in Azkaban.


	34. Chapter 34

I can’t help myself. I withdraw my wand from my boot, and I perform one more cleaning charm on the living room. This time, not so much as a mote of dust rises into the air. That’s fair. I’ve only done four charms on the room in the last hour.

            Back into my boot with the wand. I’m already in my jacket, which is grey felt with buttons down the front. It’s new. Weather has dipped a bit. Not cold enough for my beanie, but another few weeks and it will genuinely be winter.

            I thread my fingers through my hair, which still feels strange. I got it cut, so that it barely brushes my ear when it’s pulled over. I like it, it just might take some getting used to.

            My stomach has filled with butterflies. I’m being quite silly right now. Really quite silly. There’s no reason to get worked up like this.

            With a growl, I leave the living room and go to the bathroom, flicking on the lights.

            I lean forward, taking a look at my face. I’m all right, aren’t I? I’m nice looking. I’m thin, and yes, I border on too-thin, but I haven’t quite fallen over the edge. My chin points, but I have a good long nose, and my eyes are unique. I’m fine. I look just fine.

            Oh God, I need to stop being so ridiculous.

            Smacking the lights off, I head back down the hall. There’s no reason for me to be this nervous. Everything is as it should be. More or less.

            My phone rings. Oh, bugger it all, I can’t deal with anyone right now. Without even looking at who’s calling, I answer. “I’m unavailable, even if it’s an emergency.”

            After a pause, I hear, “Oh. It’s cool.”

            I grab my keys off the counter. “Demetrius. Apologies, but I have to be at JFK in an hour to pick up someone coming in from England and my cab is set to be here at any moment. What might I do for you in the thirty seconds I have to offer?”

            “Nothing. No, it’s—it’s cool. I just called to talk.”

            “You’re certain?” I really can’t chat right now. No matter the topic, I really do have to go.

            “Yeah, it can wait. Sorry to bother you.”

            Opening the door, I say, “It’s never a bother. If you really need me, I’ll call you back when I’m in the cab.”

            “No. No, I’ll catch you later this week.”

            I lock up, dropping the keys into my pocket. “All right, talk to you later.” My phone is buzzing, letting me know I’ve a call coming in. That will be the cab. “Got to go! Bye!” I hang up before he has the chance to say anything, which is not my style—certainly not with the boys—but I think if I don’t get myself into motion I’ll go mad. I answer the incoming call. “Coming!”

            Finally. Finally, finally, finally.

 

I have another sip of my coffee. Yes, I am a bit hyper at the moment, and hopefully that will settle, and perhaps caffeine is not the best of ideas, but I think I’ll be all the worse without it.

            It’s fairly busy. It’s afternoon, plenty of flights coming in. I’m standing near the luggage carousel. I don’t know why he was so adamant on travelling this way. I told him it was rubbish. I told him repeatedly about turbulence, but would he listen? Of course not. He’s so bloody stubborn.

            I wish I could calm down. I keep telling myself there’s no need to be so worked up. It’s just a visit. Just two friends visiting. That’s what we are. Friends. That’s peculiar enough. Anything else is just a weird by product of an insane past and emotional intensity that has few other outlets.

            Calm down.

            Tomorrow I’ll be at the shop for my usual time. Life goes on. I make myself think of what must be done tomorrow. Jason has three clients scheduled for tomorrow, including that woman who makes the loud moaning noises I can hear from the desk, even over everyone’s machines. Leanna is gone in the afternoon for an eye appointment. Isaac needs to pop out for an hour at two so he can be at the pediatrician’s office with Jan. Rodrigo has a three hour block between clients. I don’t know if he’ll want to spend it sketching or if I can hand off the pork chops to him. He’s unpredictable. Isaac and Leanna always schedule time to draw at work, and Jason draws any time he gets a spare second. Some days, though, Rodrigo will want his empty time for drawing, and sometimes he’ll just fly through one small tattoo after another.

            I have to get Jason those fucking MadaCide wipes he’s grown attached to. I should order a new broom too. The old one’s getting a bit ratty. Maybe I should schedule someone to come in and wax the floors. It’s been a few months.

            More people begin to trickle in from the gate, and all of a sudden I’m biting my lip. Stop it, Draco. Jesus. Any more obvious and you’ll embarrass yourself. I have another gulp of my coffee—fuck. Too much. Too much! I’ve scalded my tongue. Fantastic. Into the garbage with you, you useless thing.

            Sticking my hands into the pockets of my coat, I do my best to look nonchalant as people come through. There’s hugs, happy greetings. Some people who just look exhausted and go right to the luggage carousel without anyone here to meet them. I hear more English accents in the span of ten seconds than I typically do in a month.

            Harry emerges from behind a tall, exhausted looking man. His bright eyes swing from side to side, seeking me out.

            For a moment, I do nothing to draw his attention. I merely look at him. He has a rucksack on, and his coat held over his arm. He wears a terrible orange jumper over jeans. His hair falls across his forehead, his glasses slipping down his nose, and I think he might be one of the best things I’ve ever seen.

            When his eyes catch on me, and he smiles, unguarded and pure, it does nothing to shake that observation.

            I unstick myself, walking forward to meet him. How do I go about this? A handshake? Are we the kind of people who do that? Is that the kind of friends we are?

            I stop thinking when he’s almost run over by a tiny woman who leaps up into a much larger, much butcher woman’s arms, and starts kissing her all over the face. Harry looks slightly sheepish, stepping around them, and keeps walking to me.

            He looks so pleased to see me. I’ve seen that look on his face before. When we were children, I would see how he would look at other people. More often than not, he had that look on his face. Like he was happy they _existed_. I can’t remember him ever looking at me like that before.

            “Hello,” I say when he gets close enough.

            Harry plants himself in front of me with a big smile on his face. “Hello.” We stand there a moment, both of us unsure where to go next. Then he says, “Fuck it,” and steps forward, hugging me.

            Right.

            Right, he’s—he’s hugging me. Hands, Draco! Figure out what to do with your hands!

            As naturally as I’m able—which is not saying much—I put my arms around him and give him a sort of pat, pat. For want of anything better, I say, “So we’re people who do this, then?”

            Harry steps back, and I am relieved and disappointed. He’s blushing, but he says stubbornly, “Yes. We are.”

            “You could have warned me,” I mutter.

            He cracks up, and that smile of his is absolutely deadly. “Do you know what I love?”

            Off guard, I ask cautiously, “What?”

            “Flying,” he says, and oh thank God. “It’s wonderful. Every second. I think you just had a bad experience and should try again.”

            “You’ve been on American soil for ten minutes and you’re already trying to boss me around, do you realize that?”

            “Maybe it’s your American influence.”

            Hard to smother my smile at that. “Shut up and get your things.”

            I follow him to the carousel, and Harry glances around. “Ceilings are awfully low,” he remarks.

            “It’s muggle architecture. It’s meant to be functional, not bludgeon you to death with grandeur.” I look at all the black bags coming around the carousel. “Which one is yours? You made sure to mark it, didn’t you?” A hot pink suitcase comes around the corner, and I snort. “They’ll never lose that one.”

            “Ah….”

            I glance at him. He’s cringing a little. “No.”

            Harry leans down, picking the bright pink bag up and setting it on the ground. Standing his ground, he says, “I consulted the internet, and it said to have a bag that was very ostentatious so that no one would be tempted to steal it, and that could be easily identified.”

            I can’t say that Harry is adorable. I simply can’t.

            After a moment, I—bloody hell—reach out a hand for the bag. He hesitates, and I sigh, “I’m your host, I’m supposed to take your bags.”

            With a smirk, Harry pushes it over. “Only because I like the thought of you having to be seen in public carrying it around.”

            I shake my head. “For that, you have to pay for the cab.”

            “Gladly,” he says, and he keeps to my side as we walk away.

 

“It’s your own fault,” Harry laughs.

            I bend over, hands on my thighs. “Stifle yourself, Potter.” My stomach is swimming, and my head is little better. We’re standing on the sidewalk outside my apartment building as I try and recover from my bout of car sickness.

            “Aren’t you the one who’s no problem with apparating?”

            “I wasn’t going to apparate from JFK, you fool. Would you apparate from the middle of Heathrow?” I straighten, a hand to my stomach. “All right. Enough of that.”

            I let us in, then wrestle his hideous pink bag away from him. He is far too amused by this.

            Dragging the bag up the stairs, I say, “Do you know who this horrendous thing reminds me of?”

            “Umbridge,” Harry replies without skipping a beat.

            “Yes.”

            “Don’t I remember a certain someone being her pet?”

            I ruminate, “She really wasn’t that bad, if you got to know her—“

            I yelp as he flicks me in the back. “Tell that to my hand, you blond bastard.”

            “Barely here an hour and you are _abusing_ me,” I grumble.

            “Just think. You have to put up with this for five whole days.”

            “Well, you leave at noon on Sunday, so it’s really more like four and a half.” I unlock the door, and let him into the apartment. I’m a little more apprehensive this time. The last time he stayed it was without any preparation on my part. I’ve had weeks to prepare this time. I’ve rearranged furniture. I’ve bought new blankets.

            Harry looks around, and his eyes fasten on the couch. “Is—that for me?”

            I know what he means. There’s a maroon blanket folded on the cushions. “You’re not taking it home with you. You can use it when you come visit.”

            He smiles crookedly, and I ignore him, shrugging out of my coat. As I hang it up, Harry says, “You look quite sharp.”

            “I have to make up for you,” I reply, and he pulls a face. I put my hands on the back of my hips and shrugs. “Tell the truth. I look like a Mormon missionary.” He starts to laugh. I pull on the dark tie I’m wearing over a short sleeved white shirt. “It’s true, isn’t it.”

            I drag the suitcase to the end of the couch. “I wouldn’t go that far.” My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out. Text from Derrell. I put it back in. “No one important?”

            “It’s always someone important, but I should get you settled. Are you not tired? What time is it in England?”

            “Oh, I slept a little on the plane.” Of course, he lets out a yawn. I raise a brow, and he shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re looking at me for.”

            “All right. An early night tonight.”

            “Who are you? Molly Weasley?”

            “Well? Do you want to go out? Do things?”

            Harry waffles, then admits, “Not exactly.”

            I perch on the back of the couch, and raise my shoulders. “We could just have a night in? Watch a movie. Order some food. Not exactly thrilling for your first night in New York—“

            “It sounds perfect.”

            After a moment, I say, “Does it?”

            Harry presses his lips together, then nods. “It does.”

            I push myself back up. “Well—you get your things how you like them, and I’ll pull out my menus. In the meantime—“ I swallow. This is a leap of faith. This is a step. Only people I really care about are allowed—get on with it, Draco. I pick the little keychain up off the counter, and turn to him, holding it out. “You’ll need these.”

            Harry looks at them, and pauses. He starts to reach out, then looks at me. “Are you certain?”

            “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” I say, not certain in the least. “I’ll be at work for eight hours of the day, and I don’t intend to lock you in or out of the apartment when I go. So best you have the spare set.” He almost takes them, and I pull them abruptly out of the way. “Just—promise me. You will bring home no waifs. No stray dogs.”

            With an eye roll, Harry says, “No waifs, no dogs. Check.” I put the keys onto his palm, and he rubs his thumb over them a moment before slipping them into his pocket.

            Then he looks at me. I look back, unsure what to say. Is it going to be like this the entire time he’s here?

            My phone rings, and we both let out a nervous, relieved laugh. I take my phone back out, and answer it. “Yes, dear?”

            “You weren’t answering your texts.”

            “I’m a little busy.”

            “Doing what?”

            Dropping my head back, I walk over to the window. “You know, I _love_ these pointed comments every time we speak, but at some point I’m going to return fire.”

            Derrell sighs. “I didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry, I’m just…you know.”

            “I know. What’s happening?”

            “I wanted to see if you could come over. I need somebody to bounce some ideas off of.”

            “Dear, you know I’m busy tonight.”

            “With what?”

            Turning around, I sit down on the sill. “Oh, you know. Only entertaining the first guest I’ve had from England since moving here.”

            I watch Harry open his hideous suitcase as Derrell says, “God, that’s right. I’m so out of it.”

            “You’ve not forgotten dinner on Friday, have you?”

            There is a significant pause. “No. I haven’t forgotten.”

            It’s the first time he’ll be in the same room as Alex. A dangerous proposition at the best of times. “It’s all right if you don’t want to come. We could meet you for drinks afterwards, if you like—“

            “No. No, I can—I can be an adult. Hey, I’m your friend. This is about you and—your friend. I hear he’s—you know.”

            “I know what?”

            “Are you looking at him right now?”

            I avert my eyes from the obviously fascinating task of Harry pulling out his toiletries. “No.”

            “Uh huh.”

            “We’ll see you on Friday, though?”

            “Of course. I’ve got your back.”

            “I know you do. Derrell?”

            “Yeah?”

            “You all right?”

            “I’m always all right.”

            “ _That’s_ a damned lie.”

            He laughs, and says, “Go have fun with your friend.”

            “Will do. Love you.”

            “Love you too.”

            When I hang up, Harry’s shaking his head. “What?” I say.

            “Never thought I’d see the day,” Harry comments, standing up, “when I heard you tell someone that you loved them.”

            Exasperated, I say, “I’m not a _monster_.”

            He laughs, walking down the hall. “I’m putting things in your bathroom.”

            “There’s a system in there!” I call after him.

           

I can’t take it anymore. “Do you hear yourself?”

            Harry stops, teeth half sunk into his Cubano sandwich. “What?” he mumbles around his mouthful.

            “It’s like you’ve never had food before,” I observe. “Like every time you take a bite an orgasm has been set off in your mouth.” He raises his eyes to the ceiling, putting down his sandwich. “I mean, I always imagined you as quick to start, but this is ridiculous.”

            Wiping off his lips with a napkin, Harry fixes me a gaze and says, “You pictured what I was like to start?”

            I refuse to blush. “Walked into that one, didn’t I.”

            “You certainly did.”

            We’re sitting at my table, which does not see much use on a daily basis. Usually I sit curled up on my couch to eat, but even after all these years I think I’d be horrified to do that in front of a guest. It’s as though my mother would sense it across the ocean and collapse in mortification.

            I push the basket towards him. “Have more of the Irish nachos.”

            “What makes them Irish?” Harry asks, taking a large handful for his plate.

            Picking one up, I say, “I don’t rightly know. The jalapenos are pickled. That’s the closest I can figure.” He snorts, and stuffs some in his mouth. Still hasn’t learned proper table manners after all these years. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do tomorrow?”

            Harry glances around the apartment. “Figured I’d go through all your things. Look for dark artifacts.”

            “And once you’ve done that?”

            He wipes a hand on his napkin, then pulls a battered looking list from his back pocket. “These are the things I’m supposed to do while I’m here. Ah—the Met, whatever that might be. The Natural History Museum. The Cloisters—“

            I reach over, snatching the list from his hand. “For Christ’s sake, is Granger that set on educating you? She should know better by your age. The Cloisters is part of the Met, by the way.” Holding up the list, I ask, “You really want to wander around Manhattan on your own?”

            “It can’t be worse than London.”

            I bark, then have a look at the rest of the list. “Fuck me blind, Harry, do you realize how many of these are on Samatchin? Arameth’s Brooms for Ron. American wizarding cookbook for Molly, lots of pictures for Arthur—at least that one’s doable.” I hold up the list. “These are all the things other people want you to do. What do _you_ want to do while you’re here?”

            Harry’s speechless a moment, and I swear he begins to blush. But then he smiles and says, “Besides harass you?”

            “Yes, besides that. Do you really want to go to Samatchin?”

            “Well—yes. Not on my own—“ He sees my expression, and says quickly, “But I saw that they have tour groups. I could do that.”

            I consider it, then say darkly, “We’ll go to Samatchin Thursday night.”

            “Are you sure? You don’t have to—“

            “We’ll go. We can’t tomorrow because we’ve a reservation at this Salvadoran place that’s unreal, and I’m not fucking with that to go to _Samatchin_ , of all places. Seriously, Harry, is there naught on this list that’s for you?”

            He hesitates, then pulls out a shorter list. Almost guiltily, he passes it over.

            I take a look. My eyebrows begin to reach upwards. “Harry,” I say after a moment.

            With faux innocence, he picks up his sandwich. “Mm?”

            “These are all woods and animal products. None of which you’re legally allowed to transport to England.”

            “Oh, I’m sure it will be all right.”

            “Cherry wood. Mahogany. Maple, oak—thunderbird feather?” I burst out.

            Over his sandwich, Harry says, “I thought I might have a go with it in a wand.”

            I shake the list at him. The arrogance of this man. “You can’t just— _take_ thunderbird feather with you back to England. The animal is sacred to the Native Americans. Do you know the bureaucratic hurdles you’d have to go through just to _see_ a thunderbird?”

            “Draco—it’s me. Of course I don’t.”

            “Fur of an Appalachian black panther—do you have any idea how few are—of course you don’t. Scales of a hoop snake—God, the _teeth_ of a hodag? They are so poisonous—and you think you’re going to get these through customs? You think I’d let you keep these things in my home?”

            “It’s all in pursuit of knowledge.”

            “It’s in pursuit of your mad hobby, and I’m not being an accessory to your crimes.” I toss the list down on the table. Shaking my head, I pick up my sandwich.

            I’m taken aback by how flat Harry’s voice is. “It’s not just a hobby.” I look up. He’s gazing down at his plate, his jaw set. “I’m proper serious about it.”

            Oh dear. I’ve hurt his feelings.

            Too right. I’m not going to enable him by helping him smuggle illegal items out of the country.

            “I know that,” I say, injecting as much apology as I can into my tone without being seen to backpedal or condescend. “However—sometimes someone needs to tell you no.” I push the list back across the table to him. “I’m saying no.”

            He chews on his lip a moment, then sighs, and puts the list back into his pocket. “Killjoy,” he mutters.

            “Aren’t I just. Have more nachos.”

           

When the movie finishes, Harry actually claps. “Brilliant. That was _brilliant_.”

            I shake my head, getting up to change over the DVD. “You can cross that off your list of things you should have done already.”

            “We just don’t watch movies,” Harry says, with some regret. “To tell the truth, I’d rather forgotten how good they can be.”

            Holding up the DVD, I say, “This is no mere movie. This is _The Princess Bride_. It is a legitimate classic.”

            He droops back against the couch, a loopy grin on his face. He’s wrapped up in his maroon blanket that I will never use because I can’t stand the colour. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

            “You have my permission to quote this movie as much as you please. It’s one of my very favourites, and I’ll never be sick of it. Of course, now that I’ve said it, you’ll do your level best to ruin that.”

            Harry starts to chuckle, wiping at his eyes. “Oh, I laughed so hard at that bit—‘mostly dead.’ Do you know how many times I’ve been mostly dead?”

            “Too many,” I say, closing the DVD case. I look over. It’s past nine, and he’s still rubbing his eyes. “Shall I put on another one or is it too late for you? It’s probably about two in the morning inside your brain.”

            Shaking his head, Harry simply pulls the blanket higher. “No, I can do another.”

            He’ll fall asleep during it. I’m certain. Putting the case back on the shelf, I look over my collection. “Let’s see what other gaps in your education we can fill. I don’t imagine you’ve seen _Ghostbusters_.”

            “Piss off. I’m a wizard, not a hermit in a cave.”

            “All right, all right. What do you fancy? Comedy? Drama?” I roll my eyes. “Action, I imagine.”

            “Something quieter.”

            With a victorious smile, I say, “You _are_ tired.”

            “Yeah, but—I’m not quite ready to sleep yet. You pick. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

            I go over my shelves. “Oh, what do we have.” I chew on my lip, pulling my legs up under myself.

            “I was thinking—tomorrow….”

            “Mm hmm?” I pull out _The Dark Knight_. No, he said quieter.

            “Would it be all right if I dropped by and brought you lunch or something?”

            I hesitate. Bugger. I had hoped to avoid this, but—no. That’s just being childish.

            As I push myself around to face him, Harry says, “What’s that face you have on?”

            Keeping my shoulders straight, I say, “There was a—minor incident while you were gone. As a result—probably best that you don’t drop by the shop.” The look on his face tells me that I’m not getting away from this without an explanation. “The others were teasing me quite a bit about you, and I unfortunately lost my temper and said that you were the one who gave me my scars.”

            It’s as bad as I imagined. He looks like he’s been slapped. “Oh.” Well, I feel awful. Harry frowns, seeming a bit upset. “What did you tell them _that_ for?”

            “I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry—“

            “How badly could they have been teasing you? You’re a grown up, aren’t you?”

            “I am,” I say, gritting my teeth, “and the fact of the matter is, you _did_ give me these scars.”

            He withdraws a little, annoyed. “I didn’t know you were going to…tell people.”

            “They’re my friends. I tell them everything I can without having to be nicked by the MACUSA.”

            “So even the people—the people we’re going out to dinner with, they know—“

            “Derrell doesn’t know, because he doesn’t really socialize with the others anymore. But I suppose Isaac will have told Jan. I don’t know if Jason will have told Alex.” Pulling my lips into my mouth, I notice how the apartment seems much quieter, how the space between us seems much wider. “It’s all right if you want to cancel. I know it would be awkward for you—“

            “No. No, it’s fine,” he says shortly.

            “I did tell them it was in self defense. That I tried to kill you, and you were only—“

            “Can we not—talk about it?”

            Nodding, I say quietly, “Of course.” I scoot around so I’m facing the DVD shelf again. My skin is burning slightly. I reach out, running the tips of my fingers over titles.

            Close to a minute goes by, then Harry sighs. “Sorry.”

            “You’ve nothing to be sorry for—“

            “No, I—I can’t just show up in your life and expect to be the protagonist, can I?”

            With a frown, I look back at him. “Beg pardon?”

            He lifts his shoulders. “Hermione said something to me. That I always think of my life as a story, and I’m the protagonist. Only—everybody thinks of their life as a story, and they’re always the protagonist. The story of her life is the woman who helped defeat the worst dark wizard of them all, and went on to have a happy ending, I suppose. When I think about—how things happened between us—Jesus, I can’t believe I’m going to say this to you.”

            I turn back around. “Go on then.”

            Harry swallows, then looks me in the eyes, steady. “I think of what I did to you as just a footnote. A minor event in a never ending list of awful things that happened. I know that’s shitty, and I’m sorry for that. I’m—you know I’m self centered. I’m a real prick about it sometimes too, and I’m sorry for that as well. You, though—you’ve got to look at what I did to you every day. It’s not a minor event, it’s—me almost killing you, and I can’t expect you to not talk about it just because I don’t think about it that often.” Wincing, Harry searches my face. “Are you upset?”

            I need a few seconds to be able to breathe evenly again. “Yes,” I admit. “I am. But—“

            “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said any of that—“

            Pushing myself up, I mutter, “Stop it.” I walk over to the couch, retaking my place, only this time I sit sideways so that I can face him. Harry looks a little frightened. Not sure what he has to be frightened of. “I won’t lie to you and say that’s easy to hear. That it didn’t mean that much to you—“

            Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry insists, “No, that’s not what I’m trying to say—“

            “I mean, I understand that it wouldn’t be. It has to rank fairly low on the insanity that was your teenage years—“

            “I’ve fucked this up, I didn’t say what I wanted to—“

            “Stop it,” I repeat. “You’re right. We think of ourselves as the protagonist of our own stories, and for me—for me it _was_ one of the major events of my life. It affects—how I dress, how I cut my hair. The men I take home, if I let them see me naked or not. It still means something to me, even if it wasn’t that much of a thing for—“

            “I take it back,” Harry says, strained. “I take it back. It was the worst thing I’ve ever done. I don’t think about it not because it wasn’t a horrible thing, I don’t think about it because it was the worst thing I’ve ever done and I don’t think about it because then I have to think that maybe I’m not a good person because I did mean to kill you. It wasn’t a mistake, I was trying to kill you, I didn’t know what it would do, but I hoped it would kill you, and as soon as it worked I was _sorry_ , I was so sorry and I would have done anything to take it back. If I could take back anything I did, it would be that. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I did that to you. I’m still trying to pretend like I didn’t mean it, like it wasn’t important, what’s _wrong_ with me—“

            I reach out, grabbing his hand. “Harry— _stop_. Stop it.”

            His hand is warm. It’s warm, and rough, and much stronger than mine.

            I give his hand a squeeze, then let go, wrapping my arms around myself. “Forgiven.”

            He stares at me with those bright green eyes, and shakes his head. “You can’t just—“

            “Fuck off. I’ll do what I please. I forgive you. For being an oblivious bastard. And for my scars.” I can see him trying to argue, and I shake my head. “Harry,” I say gently. “It was a _long_ time ago.”

            He shrugs, helpless. “Does it seem that way to you?”

            “Yes. It really does. Does it not to you?”

            “Sometimes yes. Sometimes no.”

            “Well, you should get over that.”

            Harry lets out a loud, resounding laugh, then clamps a hand over his mouth. I see him struggling with it. This man. This man who saved the world when he was a boy. Now a piece of him will always be stuck there. I want to take a crowbar and pry him out.

            “I’ve told my friends that I won’t put up with anyone saying anything to you,” I tell him. “You’re my friend as well. If anyone has any pointed remarks, we’ll simply leave. Does that sound fair?”

            After a few seconds, Harry gives a nod. “Yeah. All right.”

            I want to steer him away from this. We don’t need to drag all the old ghosts out into the light. “Speaking of reactions…you’ve not said what people thought when you told them you were coming to visit me.”

            The look on his face is pure gold.

 

I lay on my back, arms over my head. The ceiling swirls above me, green and glowing.

            It was a good evening. It was the most normal evening I’ve ever had with Harry, in person. Of course, there was a bit of drama, but I think that will always be par for the course with him.

            I think of what the various Weasleys thought of Harry’s trip. Even Granger was apparently thrown off her guard. She had to ask Harry to repeat himself twice. Weasley said about what I’d expect, namely, “Are you mental?” Arthur Weasley took Harry aside and asked if everything was all right. Molly Weasley was passive aggressively silent about it for some time, before finally saying, “Ask after his mother.” I told Harry that my mother is fine, thank you.

            I lift a hand, swirling my fingers. The light above reacts. I smile at that, relaxing.

            It should be a good visit. Strange, but—good. I’m glad he’s here.

            God, I’m glad he’s here.

            Thinking that, I turn over onto my side, sticking my hands up under the pillow.

            Coming at me in a great rush, a furious shape screams in my face, “You let me die!”

            I wake up with a holler, half falling off my bed. I reach out, grabbing onto the night table. Jesus! Jesus fucking Christ, that felt—that felt very real—but it’s not real. It’s not real. I shut my eyes, and try to slow my breathing, only my heart is pounding in my ears and it’s hard to focus on anything save the fear.

            Faint, I hear footsteps pounding down the hall. “Draco? Draco, are you—bloody hell—“

            The door slams open, and I look up. Harry’s standing there in t-shirt and his stupid Cannons boxers, holding his wand up, and staring at the lights overhead.

            “What are you doing?” I ask.

            “You—you yelled.” He points at the ceiling. “What’s that?”

            “My night light,” I say with some exasperation.

            Harry stares at me, saying, “Right. Sorry!” He whirls, slamming the door behind himself as he dodges back out into the hall.

            I drop down on the bed. I put a hand to my chest. My heart’s going crazy.

            I jump in surprise when Harry says through the door, “You’re all right, though?”

            “Just a nightmare,” I say, closing my eyes.

            “Right, right. Sorry, I saw the light under the door, and thought—well, it looks a little like….Anyways, you’re okay?”

            “Yes, Harry,” I reply tiredly.

            “Good, good. Goodnight, then.”

            “Goodnight, Harry.”

            This is not what I wanted. It’s been about a week and a half since I had a nightmare about Evan. I had thought—well, I hoped—that was maybe the end of it for now. That at least I’d get through this visit without—

            “Draco?”

            Good grief. “Just open the door and come back in.”

            “It can wait until tomorrow—“

            “I’ll _hex_ you—“

            The door opens, and Harry pokes his head in. “It’s nothing, really.”

            I pick up my wand and point it at him. “Hexing in three—two—“

            Lifting his hands, Harry says, “I thought of something I want to do while I’m here. For myself.”

            With a yawn, I say, “What’s that?”

            He tells me.

            Now _that_ gets my attention.


	35. Chapter 35

“Draco!” says Jasmine, pulling me into a hug. “When are you going to come work for me?”

            “Never,” I reply. “But it’s nice to know you care.”

            She steps back, a hand still on my shoulder, and her eyes widen. “Look at this handsome man on your arm. Where did you find him?”

            “In a cupboard under the stairs,” I say. “And he’s certainly not on my arm. Jasmine, this is Harry, Harry, this is my friend Jasmine.”

            Shaking his hand, Jasmine echoes in disbelief, “Harry?”

            Harry blinks at her, then says, “You don’t think twice about ‘Draco,’ but ‘Harry’ you have a problem with?”

            Jasmine grins, showing off the metal piercings in her gums. “Let’s keep him.”

            “Alas,” I say, “he has this bizarre need to return to England.”

            She makes a face, then holds out the clipboard with the paperwork on it out to Harry. “Fill that out, English, and then we’ll get to work.”

            He takes a look at it and lets out a bark. “Am I over sixteen,” he mutters. “I think we can tick that one off.”

            Jasmine works down the street from us. Anyone who comes in looking for piercings, I automatically send them to her. Unless they’re punters. Then I send them three blocks over to Antony, who irritated me once at a Christmas party. She’s Leanna’s half-sister, and they have the same heart shaped face, and lack of filter between their brain and mouth.

            I wasn’t able to get him in with her yesterday, seeing as it was such short notice. I wanted to be here while he went, so she’s come in early on a Thursday morning. Part of me almost thinks Harry would have preferred to do it as soon as possible so that he couldn’t change his mind. He didn’t want to talk about it all day yesterday. I asked last night over dinner if he was losing his nerve, and I could have sworn he was going to throw a pupusa at me.

            “Lee said you were romancing someone tall, dark, and handsome,” Jasmine says, leaning on the counter with a devilish grin.

            “Well, two out of four isn’t bad,” I say without thinking.

            Harry glances over with a smirk. “Which two?”

            “It’s certainly not tall,” I snipe back. He gives my foot a kick. “What are you, twelve? Sweetheart, what’s happened to your Monroe?”

            “I got sick of it,” Jasmine shrugs.

            “But I _loved_ your Monroe.”

            “Then you should get one.”

            I shudder. “You know me. I don’t like piercings.”

            Harry looks at me in surprise. “You don’t—are you _kidding_ me?”

            “I mean—I like how they look, but I don’t want any.”

            “You’ve tattoos over a good fifth of your body, and you don’t like piercings?”

            “I _don’t_. How much of a federal case do you care to make about this?” He shakes his head, going back to filling out the form, and I roll my eyes.

            “So how long have you guys been together?” Jasmine asks.

            “We’re not,” I insist.

            “You act like you are.”

            “You’re a terrible instigator, just like your sister.” In the mirror, behind the desk, I see that she has something new on her back. “Dear, what is that?”

            Lighting up, Jasmine says, “Oh! I’m doing suspension now!”

            Keeping my face as neutral as possible, I say, “Suspension. Really.”

            “Yeah, I love it. It’s awesome. English, you doing okay with those forms?”

            “Yeah,” Harry says. “What’s suspension?”

            She explains.

            Harry looks at her a long time without blinking, then turns to me. “Sounds like a night out for the Death Eaters.”

            This time I kick him.

 

“This is really your first piercing?” Jasmine asks, laying her things out on the tray. This is the only place I would feel safe bringing him. Jasmine is as obsessive about sanitary spaces as we are, and she only uses the best jewelry. I don’t want to be known as the man who helped Harry Potter get a piercing-related infection.

            Harry nods, pressing his lips together.

            “He doesn’t have any tattoos either,” I say, from my spot to the side. It’s the first time I’ve been in while the shop was empty. She really is a gem for coming in to do this so early.

            Jasmine smiles widely, her eyes sparkling. “So a virgin.”

            Harry winks at her. “Not where it counts, love.”

            She snorts, and I say, “Keep trying, Harry. She’s gayer than I am. Jasmine, it completely slipped my mind. How’s Delilah?”

            “Behaving, more or less. You should see her new collar. It’s adorable.”

            “Delilah,” Harry says, tapping his toes against the open air. He’s laying down on the table, obviously trying to not look nervous. “Is that your pet?”

            We both burst out laughing. “In a manner of speaking,” Jasmine says.

            He looks to me, and I say quietly, with no small measure of pleasure, “Delilah is Jasmine’s slave.”

            Harry’s eyes widen. Jasmine sees his reaction, and laughs even harder. “All consensual of course, English. Good lord, are you telling me you’ve never heard of BDSM?”

            He says innocently, “I come from a very small town.” I shake my head, smothering a smile.

            “All right, you ready to do this?” Jasmine asks.

            “Absolutely,” Harry says with bravado that I don’t think he actually feels.

            “Need Draco to hold your hand?”

            “He’s fine,” I say, crossing my arms. I cast her a look. Stop trying to help me, woman.

            Jasmine leans over Harry, going over what she’s about to do. He just listens, nodding occasionally. I’m actually a bit proud. I was certainly surprised when he told me, but I didn’t try to talk him out of it or anything. Why would I? I think it will look brilliant.

            When she disinfects the inside of his nose, he squirms a little. “Cold,” he murmurs apologetically.

            I watch, feeling a touch of concern when the needle is raised. She goes through the usual, “Breathe in on one—breathe out on two—breathe in on three—breathe out—“

            The needle pushes through, and his feet push down a second, but he relaxes almost straight away. He takes it like a champ, actually, and I have to bite down on my smile.

            A minute later, and everything is done. Thirty seconds after that, and Harry sits up, not looking dizzy in the least. He looks quite pleased with himself. The hoop through his septum sits perfectly, the ball resting in that little divot above his lips.

            “How does it look?” Harry asks.

            Stunning.

            I smile, and say, “Quite nice.”

 

“I can’t believe it doesn’t hurt,” Harry says, taking a sip of his tea.

            Shaking my head, I say, “Uh oh.”

            “What?”

            “I think we might have an addict on our hands.”

            “Addict?” he laughs. “I only have the one piercing. _I_ have a piercing. That’s exciting, isn’t it?”

            “See? They start out like this. You get one piercing, one tattoo, and realize how much you like it, and then all of a sudden it’s one more, then two more, and then you look like Jasmine.”

            Stepping closer, Harry says, “How many piercings does she actually _have_ in her face? Have you ever counted? I tried, but I lost count after twenty four. It was making me nervous.”

            “Forty three.”

            “Fuck _off_.”

            “I’m serious. I can’t believe she got rid of her Monroe, though. I think that one was my favourite.”

            “How can you even tell them apart?” Harry exclaims.

            We’re walking slowly down the street towards work. He bought me coffee—another point for Harry—and I wish that we didn’t have to part. Yesterday was nice—after work we had dinner and walked through Brooklyn, and I pointed out all of my favourite things. It’s tempting to just run off with him right now—I mean in a strictly platonic way. He plans on spending the afternoon in Manhattan, and that doesn’t sound half bad. It’s a beautiful day. The leaves are changing over, and it’s a perfect temperature. My jacket is unbuttoned, but I could just as easily fasten it.

            Harry’s wearing a Gryffindor scarf, because of course he is. I reach over, tugging on it. He catches my eye, then reaches over and pulls on my green scarf. I grin, and have another swallow of coffee.

            “Why that one?” I ask.

            He points to his septum. “There, you mean?”

            “Yes, there. Most people, they start out with their ears. If I ever had anything pierced, even I’d start with my ears.”

            “Not really my style, is it, to do what everyone else is. I don’t know. After I saw you get your tattoo, I thought about how happy they seemed to make you. Considered getting one myself, but I don’t know that I could settle on something that I’d want to look at forever. Besides, the connotations of the mark—“ He shudders. “I’m not sure I could do it. You’re braver than me. So I started thinking about piercings. Had a look around online to see what I liked. I sort of went back and forth on whether to say anything. I wanted to do it, I just didn’t know whether I should say.”

            “What made you, then?”

            Harry shrugs, kicking through a small pile of leaves. “This was the only place I could do it. I’d never have the courage back home. I’d be too worried about what people said. Here, though—“ He takes a step over, bumping into my arm. “I suppose you make me brave.”

            The compliment makes me warm. I can’t take it, though. “Oh, shut up. You’re one of the bravest men who’s ever lived. I know because I read it in a book.”

            He breaks out laughing. “You’re awful.”

            We reach the shop, and I sigh. “Well, this is me.” I pull out the shop keys, and look him straight on. “You remember everything we discussed.”

            Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, mother hen.”

            “Tell me again.”

            “I’ve your phone number. If I get lost in Manhattan, I catch a cab to the address in my phone, call you, and you’ll apparate there and come find me. You realize I could just catch a cab back to your apartment. I’m _thirty_ , Draco.”

            “Yes, so you should be old enough to realize that it’s a terrible expense to take a cab to Manhattan and back again.”

            Grinning, Harry shakes his head. “What are you so worried about? You know I can take care of myself.”

            “I know.” Guiltily, I say, “I should have taken the week off. I just didn’t feel right about it—Jason’s been so good about my schedule—“

            Harry takes me by the arms, giving me a light shake. “I’ll be _fine_.”

            He’s so near. “All right.” Can’t help it. I want to do it, so I go ahead and do it. I give him a hug. “Call me if you do get lost.”

            “Yes, yes.”

            When he pulls away, it’s so close that it seems almost natural to turn my head nearer to him. Only I don’t. I step away, unlocking the door. “Go, have an adventure.”

            “I shall.”

            I start to step inside, then I stop. Oh, to hell with it. I step back outside, holding onto the door. “Harry,” I call after him.

            He turns around, eyebrows raised, morning breeze throwing his hair around.

            “Your piercing.”

            “What about it?”

            Steady. “It makes you look quite handsome.”

            He smiles. “I know,” he says, and walks away.

            I lick my teeth. The arrogant bastard. Grinning, I lock the door behind myself.

 

“Heard you took Harry to get his septum pierced,” Leanna murmurs, dousing a work in progress, then wiping it with some paper towels.

            Crouched beside her station, going through the drawers, I reply, “I did.”

            “Heard he looks good.”

            “He looks all right.”

            “Shame that you have to have a huge crush on the guy who _stabbed_ you.”

            I drop my head back on my shoulders. “First, I don’t have a crush on Harry. Secondly, he was acting in self defense. Third, this is why you’re not allowed to come to dinner tomorrow.” Ah ha. Grabbing the wooden box hiding at the back of the drawer, I open it up. It’s stuffed to the brim with packages of elastics. I hold them up, but she doesn’t look at me. That’s a good thing. I don’t mean to distract her in the middle of work. “Leanna. You can’t _hoard_ these.”

            “I need them.”

            “So does Isaac.” Catching his eye, I toss a packet to Isaac. He snatches it out of the air, giving me a grateful look. The man is fast approaching forty and is a father, but he still doesn’t have the courage to go through Leanna’s things. “If you want more, I’ll order more. I _did_ order more.”

            “I like to know they’re there.”

            I take most of the packets, slipping them into my pocket. “I’m leaving you with four. I’m hiding the rest. If you need more, I will order more.”

            “I’ll find them when you’re not looking,” Leanna says as I stand up.

            “I’d like to see you try.”

            Jason meets me in the doorway. He’s fanning himself with a few twenties, and I grin. “Look at this,” he says. “The kid tipped me like fifty percent.”

            “And you didn’t tell him that wasn’t standard practice?” I ask, dropping down onto my chair.

            “I tried!”

            “He was making eyes at you.”

            Jason shudders, and puts the money in his back pocket. “He was nineteen.”

            Gesturing to him, I arch a brow. “This does it for plenty of nineteen year olds.”

            This time he gags. “No thank you.” He lingers a moment. “So, tomorrow.”

            I spin around, fixing him with a glare. “You’re not backing out, are you?”

            “No—“

            “And you’re going to behave, right? I’ve said repeatedly, Harry and I are friends now, and it would mean a great deal to me if you would—“

            Waving his hands, Jason says, “Buddy, calm down. I’m not going to cock block you.”

            “We’re not—“ Oh, for Christ’s sake. I’m fighting a losing battle with these people. “What about tomorrow?”

            “Do you think Derrell’s going to be okay?”

            Slumping in my seat, I say, “Jason. You’ve both been broken up over three years. You’ve had to be around his boyfriends plenty. Can we not just all be _adults_ about this? Draco doesn’t want two Christmases.”

            “I know, I know. I just—“ Jason crouches besides me, holding his hands between his knees. “Is he doing okay? I heard from Gemma that he’s been a little…ragged.”

            I don’t like being in this position. I’ve always tried not to get in the middle of them, and Jason and I have a long standing agreement to not discuss what Derrell’s up to, thanks to the supremely uncomfortable first six months after their break up.

            It’s not like that anymore. It’s been years. “He’s under a lot of stress,” I say neutrally.

            “He’s always under a lot of stress.”

            “Yes, well…budget’s been slashed again. A student dead, at least a dozen arrested since the start of year that I’ve heard of second hand, and several hundred others who need a lot of attention. Unlike me, he doesn’t have the option to just bugger off if he gets sick of the surroundings.”

            Jason blows out a breath. “Yeah.” He pushes himself up. “Well, hopefully he’ll be able to relax and have some fun tomorrow night.” Snapping his fingers, Jason points at me. “Alex wants to know if you’ll come over for dinner next Saturday. He’s cooking.”

            Surprised, I say, “Sure.”

            “Awesome. Give me a shout when my 2:15 rolls in.”

            He walks into the studio. It takes me a second to get back to work. That’s honestly the most mature Jason’s been about Derrell since they broke up.

            About bloody time.

 

“I can’t decide,” Harry says with some frustration. He holds up the books. “ _The Sandwitch Volume Two_ or _The Southern Witch’s Guide to Comfort Food_?”

            Arms crossed, I shrug. “I don’t know.”

            “You’re useless. I should have gone with someone who cares about shopping.”

            “I like shopping just fine. I shop all over Brooklyn, thank you.” I shuffle aside as an oblivious witch bustles through, not watching where she’s going. “I just don’t care for this place.”

            “It is a bit crowded,” Harry admits. He looks between the two, and sighs. “I’ll just get them both.”

            “You’ll need to be able to get that suitcase back on the plane.”

            “I’m still a wizard. I’ll just shrink them down.” Harry spots something over my shoulder and slumps. “Bugger. Maybe she’d prefer _Lambert Bouillon’s Seventy Sweet Soups—“_

I grab him by the arm and shove him towards the aisle. “You’ve already picked. We’re leaving.”

            The bookstore is impossibly cramped. The aisles are about two feet across, and God help you if you’re trying to come through with a pushchair. The ceiling almost grazes my head, and I swear I can hear it creaking above me. It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

            A book lunges out, snapping its covers at me. I startle back, but before I can do anything, Harry steps forward and punches it. It drops dramatically to the ground, hanging by a chain. I swear I hear it whimpering.

            Recovering, I say, “That was very chivalrous of you.”

            With a grin, Harry says, “I remember how scared you were of _The Monster Book of Monsters_.”

            “As were you!”

            “Was not.”

            “We all were, you liar.”

            When we get to the till, Harry pulls out a handful of coins. “There’s two fusses to a sloop, right?”

            “Mm hmm.” I lean on the counter, watching with some amusement as he struggles with the money. The witch behind the counter snaps on some gum, then blows a bubble. The bubble has a skull on it.

            A small queue forms behind us, and Harry glances back sheepishly. “Sorry, folks. Ah—sixteen sloops, a fuss, and three nickwidgels.” He looks rather proud of himself.

            Not nearly as impressed, the witch pushes his books at him. “Do you need a receipt?”

            “Ah—no. Thank you very much.” I pull him away, and Harry murmurs, “Do I not get a bag for these?”

            “Service at McGinty’s isn’t renowned for anything besides being shoddy.” When we step outside, I frown, and knot my scarf a little higher. “It’s always like this in October.”

            “What?”

            “They never quite figure out the temperature for the street. It’s always too hot or too cold.”

            I’m nearly run over by a young man in bright orange pants, and Harry pushes me protectively back against the wall. “Oi!” he hollers. “Watch where you’re going, you little troll!” He turns back to me, shaking his head. “People here are _not_ well behaved.”

            I brush myself off, and my heart isn’t beating faster. It’s simply not. “I told you.”

            “I was quite worried about wandering around Manhattan on my own, but that seems positively civilized after—Draco.”

            “Hmm?”

            Harry’s staring up at the sky. “Are—are they riding—hoovers?”

            “They are. Behold, the center of wizard hipsterism.”

            “Hoovers,” he says, offended. “What will they think of next?”

            I start to laugh. “You sound like such an old man.”

            He looks back at me, and starts to smile. “I can’t help it! It’s ridiculous. Blimey, they go fast up top, don’t they.”

            “Further you go up, faster you’re allowed to go. Only district in the entire city that people are allowed to fly. There’s a community about thirty miles outside city limits—Harrowdowns. That’s a magics community. They have the whole area blocked off for miles and miles.”

            “Have you ever been?”

            “No. You know me. Traitor to my own kind.”

            We stand against the wall, watching the people above us flying. “How long since you’ve been on a broom?” Harry asks.

            “Twelve years,” I reply. “At least.”

            “You loved to fly, though.”

            “I loved showing off. There’s a difference.”

            “You have a broom in your house. I’ve seen it. It’s a Rocket, isn’t it? That was popular a few years back.”

            “Mother sent it. I use it to sweep.”

            Harry gazes at me in horror. “You do not.”

            I nod, barely withholding my smile. “I do.”

            “You _are_ a traitor to your kind.”

            I snort, and look over at him. He’s gazing up at the people flitting by between buildings. He acts like he’s disgusted by the vacuums, but he can’t take his eyes off them either. I look at his profile in the evening light—that strong nose, with its gold hoop at the bottom, and the way his lips part slightly. His green eyes move back and forth behind his glasses, taking everything in.

            I come very close to leaning over and kissing him.

            I don’t, though.

            “Speaking of brooms,” I say, taking his books and putting them in my satchel, “we should get to Arameth’s. It’s not as bad as the bookstore, but we have about a half hour before the shops start to close.”

            Harry looks at me with a smile, no idea of the thoughts that were just going through my head. “Yeah, all right.” He follows me, glancing up at the sky. “They’re ridiculous—but they reach a decent clip, don’t they?”

            “Indeed,” I say quietly.

 

When we leave the shop, Harry catches my gaze. “All right,” he admits, “it’s a little excessive, but come on. She’s a Weasley. She needs a starter broom.”

            “I think you should have let her parents decide on that,” I repeat.

            Harry holds up the three foot long Arrow, unable to stop smiling. “I’ll ask Hermione before I give it to her, of course.”

            “You will not.”

            He rolls his eyes. “Fine, I won’t, I’ll ask Ron, because I know he’ll say yes. Oh, Rosie’s going to _love_ this. She has her little toy one—it’s a Nimbus replica, but it only gets about a foot above the ground. Her legs are longer than that.” He’s so happy that I have to work to let it not be infectious. “Do you not remember your first broom?”

            “We all remember our first broom.”

            “Tell me about it,” Harry says, then starts looking around. “Is there not a pub that we could—“

            “Mr. Malloy.”

            I still. For a moment, I close my eyes.

            Turning, I give my head a bow. “Mistress Teseli.”

            She tilts her head, studying me. I have not seen her in months, and this is certainly the coolest greeting I have ever given her. Her eyes travel to Harry, who’s watching her with suspicion.

            “And Mr. Harry Potter,” Teseli says, stepping forward, offering an elegant hand.

            He takes it, inclining his head slightly. “Mistress.” He lets go a second sooner than is polite, withdrawing to my side.

            “Your arrival is unexpected, Mr. Potter.”

            “Not really,” Harry replies.

            Teseli gazes at him, and I have to wonder what she sees. If after all these years she really is the dark witch that Harry claimed months ago. If I’m going to have to do something about her. I would. If she makes a single solitary move on him, I will make her regret it. “I have heard that you have some interest in my craft.”

            If he’s surprised, he doesn’t let on. “I dabble,” Harry says with a grim little smile.

            “Dabble,” Teseli says flatly. Harry’s smile widens a touch more. He’s not the type to back down from any perceived threat. Teseli moves her gaze from him to me. “You’re upset with me, Mr. Malloy.”

            “Why would I be?” I reply. “You’ve done nothing.”

            “I don’t care for your tone.”

            “That’s unfortunate. We really must be going—“

            “You came to my window and asked for help. I was told this. You’re upset that I wasn’t there.”

            I shake my head. “Of course not.”

            “You can’t ignore magic kind and expect it to just be waiting when you wish it.”

            “I rather think of it like this: true to form, the one time I did need magic, it failed.” I touch Harry’s elbow. “We’ll be going now.”

            He turns away, as do I.

            “Mr. Malloy.” I don’t want to look back. I shouldn’t. I can tell by her voice that whatever she says will only bring me pain. Of course, I still look back. Teseli narrows her eyes at me, dropping her voice. “Whatever you think right now, this—“ She gestures between the two of us. “Will always only be a dream.”

            She turns her back on us, and walks away.

            I feel my lip curl.

            I take Harry by the forearm, growling, “Let’s get out of here,” and I apparate before he can say anything.

           

I’m not sure how much time passes before Harry asks, “You all right?”

            We’re walking along the river. I brought us out behind a restaurant a ways from my place. I felt like it might be nice to walk. Or maybe I just wanted to stew. “Fine.”

            “Only she seems to have gotten under your skin a fair bit.”

            Hands in my coat pockets, I say, “That’s what witches and wizards do. They’re like sand in a bathing suit. Classic irritant.”

            “None of my business, but what did she do to piss you off so badly?”

            I inhale through my nose, sidestepping a couple jogging by with a dog that’s struggling to keep up. “The night before Evan died—he took off. No one could find him. I walked all over the Bronx, called every number, searched every place I could think of. I was convinced he was going to hurt himself. Finally, I decided I’d ask for help from the only magics I trust in the city.” I glance at him. “And she conveniently wasn’t home.”

            Harry walks with the broom resting back against his shoulder. “Just to play devil’s advocate here—it’s not her fault she wasn’t home.”

            “No, you don’t understand. She doesn’t go further than fifty feet from that building. Where we saw her just now, that’s as far as she’ll go. She was there. I didn’t just knock on her door, Harry. I stood outside and screamed her name at the open windows, and she didn’t answer. She sees things. She looks at you, and she knows things. I think she knew I’d come to ask for help with a muggle, and she simply decided not to help.”

            “Ah. That’s less defensible.”

            “It’s indefensible—“

            “Yes, Draco, I know.” Harry pushes his hair off his forehead, and says, “Is it getting any easier? With Evan, I mean.”

            “I woke you up last night screaming from a nightmare about him. So I don’t know that easier is the word. Sometimes I forget. You know, the way you forget something’s gone wrong. You get busy, or you go out for dinner, and then you’re walking home and you remember—oh, right. Someone I know is dead. And the legs just get swept out from under you.”

            Nodding, he says, “I know all about that.”

            “Do you still have nightmares?”

            “Oh yes. Some real corkers. The night before my flight, I dreamed that—“ Harry makes a face. “For God’s sake, never repeat this.”

            “Scout’s honour.”

            “What?”

            “I promise. Never repeat.”

            Still, he drops his voice to nearly a whisper. “Dreamed my mother was married to Voldemort.”

            I gag, lifting a hand towards my throat. “Oh— _God_. That’s terrifying.”

            “You’re telling me. Only way it could be worse was if I was married to Voldemort.”

            I snort, then give my head a shake. “Is it not strange. Even now, after all these years…that we can make jokes about him. We can say his name, and people don’t scream, or his minions don’t pop up and put you in a sack to take you away. Distance—does strange things.”

            “It does. Thank Merlin for that.” Harry elbows me slightly. “What is it about her that made you trust her? Seriously. She basically radiates dark magic.”

            “She does not.” I pause. “She might give off a slight hint of it.”

            “Thought as much.”

            “She reminds me of my mother a little, truth be told. We have rituals. As much as I stretch and strain at all the old rules—sometimes it’s nice to have people expect you to act a certain way. For there to be an etiquette.” Thumbing over my shoulder, I explain, “What I did just now—she’ll not forgive that any time soon. That’s the least accommodating I’ve ever been.”

            “Are you kidding? Seemed to me like you were bending over backwards to be nice.”

            Laughing, I say, “Please. That was basically the pureblood equivalent of a duel. And I’m pretty sure I lost.”

            This…this is just a dream.

            As if sensing me start to retreat, Harry asks, “So what are you usually like with her? Do you bow? Oh, please tell me that you bow.”

            Dropping back my head, I admit, “I do. It’s all very civil. She says hello, and I bow. I’ll kiss her hand, compliment her. All due reverence to the queen, of course. She is brilliant, that much is true, and she has been kind to me. All she ever asks is that I show her old world manners and demonstrate my patronus.”

            “Your patronus?” Harry says with a laugh. “What, do they not have those here?”

            “Of course they do, don’t be silly.”

            “She’s just never seen a ferret one before?”

            I stop in my tracks, glaring at him. He stops too, looking at me with raised brows, like he doesn’t understand why we’ve halted.

            “You’re kidding, right? You don’t _actually_ think my patronus is a ferret.”

            Harry looks upward, as if searching for a memory. “Isn’t it?” he says, and Jesus Christ I think the bastard is serious. “It is—I’m certain of it—“

            I point a livid finger at him. “You’re sleeping on the streets tonight, you are.”

            I start walking again, and Harry dodges in front of me, cutting me off with a laugh. “Well, what is it, then?”

            “Don’t be thick—“

            “I’m asking for real! Tell me. No.” He puts up a hand. “Show me.”

            With a disgusted sigh, I say, “I’m not going to show you—“

            “I’ll put up a barrier,” Harry says, setting down the broom and his other shopping bags. “Average or not, I can do that quite easily. No one will see.”

            Uncomfortable, I shake my head. “I don’t want to.”

            “Oh—“ He rolls his eyes, then bounces on his feet. “Don’t pout. I really do want to see. Please?”

            Damn it.

            I sigh, having a look around. No one’s within forty feet. If he’s fast—I don’t want to do this. I don’t like using this stupid spell. Memories, after all.

            But he’s giving me the full force of his eyes, and—

            “For fuck’s sake, fine,” I snap. “Stop batting your eyelashes at me and put up the barrier.”

            Harry grins, wide, and fishes his wand out of the back of his pocket. I nervously keep an eye out, slipping my wand from my boot. With a murmur and swish of his wand, Harry begins to raise a boundary around us. The air shimmers. No one will see or hear us once we’re sealed in.

            Which memory? Which memory do I choose? I don’t want to use the spell, but if I do, I sure as hell want to leave an impression.

            What’s he done? The diameter is all of five feet.

            “Ah—a bit larger than that, please.”

            With a nod, Harry waves his wand, and the border obediently moves outwards another five feet. I don’t know what he’s going on about, that he’s a terrible wizard. He seems just fine to me. Well, that will have to be another conversation for another day. I have other concerns at the moment.

            “A bit larger,” I say, stepping back.

            Frowning, Harry says, “How much space do you think it needs to move about in?”

            “Higher as well, thank you.”

            He thinks I’m just being melodramatic. So I imagine he thinks he’s funny when he pushes back the barrier so that it’s about thirty feet across, and thirty feet high. Harry walks away from me, then turns around. “Is that satisfactory?” he calls.

            That might do it.

            I back up all the way to the opposite side of the barrier. I’ve never done this for anyone who wasn’t…well, who wasn’t at least a bit evil, I suppose.

            It’s just a spell.

            If only.

            I close my eyes. I clear my mind.

            A memory.

            I am eleven years old. It is my first potions lesson. A hand settles on my shoulder, and I look up. The professor says, “ _Excellent_ , Draco.” It is the first time he has said my first name in a class room. It is not a thing he will do with anyone else. I am so proud.

            Opening my eyes, I raise my wand towards the sky. “ _Expecto Patronum_.”

            The dragon comes barrelling out of the end of my wand, as if it’s been perched at the tip, waiting anxiously to escape. It throws open its wings, filling the barrier with shimmering blue light, so bright that it is difficult to see. It hovers in the air, letting out a silent scream, then begins to soar around the space made for it.

            Harry has to duck. I’m keeping hold of my wand, focusing on my spell, so I’m not able to pay him much attention. I see that his mouth has fallen open, but not much more than that.

            The dragon does several laps of the space, so massive that when it extends its wings they nearly meet both sides. Hovering above the ground, it lowers itself down. It looks towards the sky, as if it longs to be free.

            It is always as beautiful as the day I first saw it.

            When its wings are fully open, its maw calling out soundlessly, I decide it is a good time to stop. I lift my wand, and with a flicker, my dragon is gone. _Like the dragon we rise_.

            A bit embarrassed, I look across the barrier to see Harry’s reaction. He’s still slightly hunched, as if waiting for the creature to sail over him again. Straightening, he looks around with wide eyes.

            “That….” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his head. “Was…big.”

            I nod, now more than a little embarrassed. “It is.” I stick my wand back in my boot. “Shall we?”     

            “Shall we what?”

            “Go home.”

            “Right. Yes.”

            “Harry?”

            “Yeah?”

            “The—barrier.”

            “Yes! Yes, the barrier.”

            I shouldn’t have done the spell.

 

“I’m a moron.”

            “You are.” I look over at Harry. “Why are we talking about that?”

            It’s the first he’s said after a long silence. We’ve been sitting on the roof of my building, with a few beers. Neither of us has said much after leaving the river. I have the feeling that I’ve ruined things a little, only I’m not sure why.

            Harry puts his head in his hands. “Of _course_ it would be a dragon. How could I have not realized that?”

            I shrug. I don’t really want to talk about it. “It’s all right.”

            “Like—your name is literally ‘dragon.’ What did I think your patronus would be?”

            “A ferret, apparently,” I mutter, and have another sip of beer. We’re leaning back against the access shed, sitting on a blanket.

            I feel Harry’s eyes on me. He looks closer, then says, “Why do you not like that spell?”

            “It’s not a matter of disliking it.”

            “You do. It’s like you have a big neon sign on you that says ‘I don’t want to discuss this.’”

            “So why are we discussing it?”

            Harry lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Because—your patronus is fucking incredible. I’ve never seen one that size in my life. If I had a patronus like that—I’d never shut up about it.”

            “You never shut up about your patronus as it was.”

            He furrows his brow. “Bad memories?” he guesses.

            “God, you just pick away at things, don’t you. Where are the days of summer, when you just wanted me to keep my mouth shut?”

            “Gone now,” he says. “I told you I was going to harass you while I was here. I meant it.”

            “Apparently.”

            “When did you realize you could do it? I mean—when did you first see it? I would have thought I’d know about it. I’d have thought you’d tell everyone.”

            “The, ah…timing was not…ideal.”

            “Tell me.”

            “You need to know when to stop.” I look at him. “You need to figure out what it means when someone says no, and what it means when someone says stop.”

            Harry blinks, then settles down. “You’re right. Right. Sorry.”

            It’s not his fault I’m in a strange mood. I want to blame Teseli. All a dream. Fuck her. Just another magics trying to tell me what I should and shouldn’t be. Trying to rattle me. I’m not going to let it happen. They can’t hurt me. And memories can’t hurt me. Not if I don’t let them.

            I thread my fingers through my hair. “Summer after fifth year.”

            I see when he realizes what that means. “Ah.”

            “They’d…been in the house about a week. Bellatrix, and a few of the others. It wasn’t like…it wasn’t as bad as the year later, when they all just moved in. But it was bad enough. I got in a fight with my aunt, and as you can imagine, she didn’t care that I was sixteen. I ran out of the house with this cut across my face. I just ran out into the fields. That age, you don’t know if you’re going to pout or cry or burn things down. I was standing out in the fields, and it suddenly became very cold. And not just cold, but…empty. Inside. You know what it’s like.”

            “Dementors,” Harry says softly.

            “I looked up, and they were—there were five of them. Just there. Moving in a circle above my head. Things were getting dark. I was seeing everything…everything I’d ever done wrong. Everything I’d ever been ashamed of. That had ever shamed my parents. They kept coming lower, and I got down on the ground. I was seeing—everything. I didn’t have many happy memories to hold onto at that point.

            “Only I remembered one. The best day of my life. My fifth birthday. My mother and father…they took me to see a dragon. An albino Welsh green. It was extraordinary. I’d never felt more…special, more loved, than I did that day. I remembered that, and I came back to my senses a bit, and got out my wand, and I remembered that spell all you fools in Dumbledore’s Army had been spouting all year, and I yelled it with every bit of conviction I possessed in my body. And the dragon saved me.”

            I balance my wrists on my knees, looking at my beer. A few seconds go by, and Harry says, “Why do I feel like you think that isn’t a good thing?”

            “It’s not that. I’m glad I’m alive. If I hadn’t lived, I wouldn’t have the life I do now. I wouldn’t have done all the things I’ve done, and I’ve done some pretty all right things. The issue was—the dragon came, and the Dementors, they were knocked back beyond the property. The dragon is very powerful, I’ll give it that. I thought I’d gotten rid of them. I thought I was safe, and so I stood up. And there he was.”

            Harry lets out a sigh. “Ah.”

            “Yeah. He was smiling at me. Did he ever smile at you?”

            “He did. I would rather forget it.”

            “As would I. He said, what an incredible demonstration of power. What hidden talents I had. That he would have to use me for a great undertaking. I was young, and stupid, and dazed. I didn’t even realize he’d brought them there to suck out my soul. That would have been his revenge on my father. Get caught, lose your child. As cruel as possible. Typical Voldemort. I was so stupid, I thought the Dementors were merely his retinue. It’s what Bellatrix told me, and of course I believed her. And when Voldemort said that I would get revenge for my father—well. That’s all he had to say, wasn’t it.”

            “You said you’d gotten over those days.”

            “I said I live with them. There are days when it’s hard to remember to forgive myself. It doesn’t happen once, and just sticks. It happens again and again and again.”

            “I forgive you.”

            I smile, but it’s just a twinge. “That’s sweet of you.”

            “Sweet? You know me. The least you could give me is ‘fucking miraculous.’”

            “It’s that as well.”

            “So you don’t like the spell because of the bad memories? Because of Voldemort?”

            “Bad memories would be one way of putting it.”

            Harry leans forward, trying to catch my eye. “You keep saying ‘the dragon.’ It’s not the dragon, it’s you. That’s your power, you know. You made that.”

            I start laughing. I put my hands to my face, and laugh hollowly into them.

            “What? What stupid thing did I say now?”

            “Oh—nothing you’ve done. You’re only trying to be kind.” I push my hair back again. It keeps getting blown forward in the wind. “It’s manufactured, Harry. It’s just another Malfoy tradition.”

            “You’ll have to explain that one to me.”

            I take out my wallet. My picture is in the same place it always is. I pass it to him, and say, “Have a look at that.”

            Harry lifts his wand, setting the end glowing. After a moment of looking at the picture, he says, “Wow. You all look….”

            “Normal might be the word you’re looking for. Out of the ordinary. I prefer manufactured. That’s what it was. The best day of my life was manufactured, from start to finish.”

            “Again, you need to explain this to me.”

            “On my fifth birthday—on every Malfoy’s fifth birthday, when we’re young enough to still be easily imprinted on, but old enough to not forget, the parents make sure that the child has a very, very special day. The child is told how good they are. How smart. They’re told over and over again, this is the best day of your life. All that reserve—the coldness—it disappears for one day. There’s all the hugs and kisses you want, and everyone smiles, and everyone tells you how wonderful you are. Then they go to see the dragon. My mother had been reading me this book for years— _Dominic the Dragon_. About a special dragon, that was white all over. She had always told me how special Dominic was, that I was like Dominic, that I had been named for dragons, that I was pale all over like the special dragon. Then they took me out to this field, and there was an albino Welsh green. It was just like the dragon from the storybooks. And they’re saying over and over again, this is the best day of your life. This is the best day of your life.” I shake my head. “It’s Malfoy family tradition to have a dragon as your patronus. They make sure of it. They trick you into thinking you’re special. They give you a day, a perfect day, where you’re guaranteed to never feel more love than that, never be happier.” My jaw twitches. “And I never have been. It’s still the best day of my life. How pathetic is that?”

            Not really loved. Not really special. Just another link in a chain that was supposed to last forever. And I have broken it, irrevocably.

            Harry leans towards me, and for a second I am certain that he is going to kiss me. I push myself up off the ground, and walk away a few steps. I need to be away from him for a little while.

            Unbuttoning my coat, I let it fall to the ground. It’s chilly, but I need to be shaken from this stupor. I reach back without looking, and my beer flies up into my hand. I have a drink, and I track the path of an airplane across the sky.

            “Regardless,” Harry says after some time. I look back. He’s wrapped his arms around his knees. With a crooked smile, he tells me, “It’s still the most beautiful patronus I’ve ever seen.”

            I duck my head. Pressing my lips together, I look back up at the sky. I find the airplane, and I wonder what it would be like to fly.


	36. Chapter 36

“I am,” Harry says stubbornly.

            “No, you ruddy well aren’t.”

            Crossing his arms on the table, Harry raises a brow. “How do you intend to stop me?”

            I look down my nose at him. “With the full force of all the magic I possess.”

            Stubborn as ever, Harry says, “I am going to pay for everyone’s meals.”

            I roll my eyes, looking around. We’re sitting in a rather nice place that’s only just opened on the edge of Boerum Hill, with plenty of fancy lighting fixtures overhead and table clothes with higher thread counts than most sails. Everyone I look at is at least a little dressed up. I’m in my grey suit, the jacket off. Sleeves rolled up to my elbows, and a pocket watch attached to my vest.

            Harry, well—I didn’t expect that he’d actually clean up this nicely. Since the start of summer, I’ve only seen him in his pajamas or t-shirts and jeans. Only he’s in black slacks that fit him perfectly and a green dress shirt that matches his eyes. He’s worn a teal tie on top of that, and with a dusting of stubble on his jaw, he looks like….

            I mean, he’s easily the most fuckable man in this room. Probably in Brooklyn, if the truth be told.

            I keep having to look away. He looked so expectant when I walked into the living room and he was dressed so nicely. I couldn’t say what I really wanted, so I settled for snide, and said, “At last, you’ve made an effort.”

            “What would be so bad about me paying?”

            “It’ll likely be four hundred dollars,” I tell him.

            Harry smiles, like he can’t believe the words out of my mouth. “Do you think I’m strapped for dosh?”

            “No, I just don’t….”

            “You don’t like it when people spend a lot of money. You think it’s trying to buy affections.”

            “Would you stop that?” I hiss.

            Chuckling, he says, “Being right? No, I won’t.”

            “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone by spending money—“

            “Maybe I just want to be nice to your friends.”

            “Why?”

            “Because they’re important to you.”

            I say, “And why does that matter?”

            Harry looks at me, and any kind of kidding falls away. He looks deadly serious, and I can’t really hear anything around us. Harry takes a breath, and says, “Because you’re—“

            “Made it!” We pull apart. When did we start leaning towards each other? Jan and Isaac have come up from the side. He’s carrying one of those car seats with him.

            My heart is stuttering a bit, but I smile as if nothing has happened. “Good lord, what’s that you have there?”

            With an eye roll, Jan says, “The babysitter bailed a half hour ago, and I just—“ She gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Had to get out of the house.”

            Harry’s already leaning over to look at the baby. “Hello,” he says, as if the thing can talk back. “And how are you this evening?” The baby laughs, because of course it does. If I tried that, it would probably start screaming for dear life. He reaches over the car seat to shake Isaac’s hand. “I’m Harry. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

            They get settled, and a high chair is brought over to the table. We have to squish our chairs a little, and when Jan goes to sit next to Harry, I say, “No, don’t do that.” She spreads her hands, and I gesture to the three empty chairs beside me. “How do you think that arrangement would play out?”

            Making a face, she says, “Good point.” They rearrange again, leaving one chair between Harry and Isaac, and two chairs between myself and her.

            “I miss the old days,” Isaac says forlornly. “When we could just sit wherever we wanted.” The baby gurgles, and Isaac nods at it. “Yes, Winston, I know you miss the old days too.”

            Snapping my fingers, I say, “Winston! There we are.”

            Jan looks at me in disbelief. “You forgot his name?”

            “Oh, don’t blame me.” I point at Isaac. “It’s that one there. He never calls it anything but ‘the baby.’”

            “It’s not an it, you jackass,” Isaac says.

            “You should be lucky I even remember your name,” I tell Jan. “He only refers to you as ‘the wife.’”

            Jan turns to Isaac. “You do what now?”

            Before Isaac can get out a word of defense, Harry asks me, “Do you seriously do this with every couple? You’re a menace.”

            “What?” I say innocently.

            Shaking his head, Harry tells Jan and Isaac, “He has this bizarre need to make trouble for every happy couple he even hears about. He nearly broke up my best friends, and he hasn’t even seen them in twelve years.”

            “If I almost broke up Ron and Hermione,” I reply, “then their relationship has far more problems than me.”

            “Hermione?” Jan says. “What a pretty name.”

            “Speaking of names,” Harry says, “I didn’t know that you had many Winstons here in America.”

            I don’t know how he does it. Within five minutes, Harry has somehow managed to get the entire family history of Isaac’s great uncle Winston, and I can see my two friends falling a little more in love with Harry as every second passes. He’s polite and funny and attentive, the curmudgeon of this summer completely vanished into a perfectly enjoyable dinner companion.

            Maybe this is what the rest of the world gets to see. I’m the one who gets to see him when he doesn’t have to hide.

            Jan suddenly reaches out over top of Winston, smacking Isaac on the shoulder. “Oh my _God_. Are you telling me that’s Jason’s new boyfriend?”

            We all look towards the foyer. Jason sees us, putting up a hand to wave. He’s actually in a proper dress shirt tonight instead of his usual outfit of black Dickies on top and bottom. Alex walks beside him, discreetly touching the back of Jason’s arm.

            “Yep,” Isaac says.

            “Christ,” Harry murmurs behind me.

            “Hey guys!” Jason says with a smile as they reach the table.

            “Hey everybody,” Alex says, and some of the illusion is broken. He is—fuck me blind—an incredibly gorgeous man. He has naturally tan skin and hazel eyes. Sandy brown hair almost down to his shoulders that he’s pulled back in a half ponytail. His suit looks like it was tailored for him. He has a face that could have been carved from marble. However—he has one of the thickest Brooklyn accents I’ve ever heard. “Draco, Isaac, good to see you again. Jan—you must be Jan, I’ve heard so many beautiful things about you.”

            He reaches his hand out to her, and she takes it with a slightly dreamy smile on her face. “Nice to meet you.”

            When he reaches out to Harry, Harry gets halfway up from his seat, not quite as dazed as people usually are when Alex walks in a room. “You must be Harry. Pleased to meet you. I’m Alex.”

            “It’s lovely to meet you.”

            “Oh my God, listen to that accent,” Alex says with a grin. “All of a sudden I feel like I was born on the docks.”

            He unbuttons his jacket, and all of us who like men take a moment to look him over. Truth be told, I think even Isaac has a glance. How often does a man have to work out to get shoulders like that?

            Jason gives me a giddy look. The same look he’s been giving me for two months— _can you believe this_?

            “Draco, my friend,” Alex says, sitting down. “How you been?”

            “My usual self.”

            “You are coming for dinner next weekend, right?” Alex asks, looking a bit worried. “I’m gonna make bryndzové halušky for you—just like my mother makes it.”

Here’s the thing about Alex. Yes, he looks like a movie star. But he is honestly one of the most eager to please men I’ve ever come across in my life. I am very protective of Jason—how could I not be—and I always imagined that I would hate anyone that Jason eventually ended up dating. It is actually impossible to hate Alex. “I will be there with bells on,” I tell him.

            “Excellent. That’s what I love to hear.” Those R’s just don’t even try to hang onto the ends of his words, do they. He turns to Isaac and Jan. “And when am I gonna see you two in my restaurant? I got these great little high chairs, the reclining backs on them, if you want to bring this cute little guy along. Of course, if you don’t, it’s also very romantic, you just want a night out for the two of you. You’d also get the ‘friend of my gorgeous boyfriend’ discount.”

            “Yeah, we’re gonna keep you,” Jan says with an appraising eye.

            “Oh good! Sorry, I’m talking a lot. I talk a lot when I get nervous.” He points at Harry. “You nervous?”

            “Not anymore,” Harry says, and Alex laughs.

            Jason stretches an arm along the back of Alex’s chair, and Alex leans back into the touch. I see him reach under the table, giving Jason’s leg a pat. Yes, I suppose we should keep him around.

            I lean back, looking around, and I catch sight of Derrell. He’s standing outside the restaurant, hands in his coat pockets. He isn’t looking inside, just—around. Presumably trying to figure out whether he should take off or not.

            _Come in_. _I want you here. Come in_.

            He’s frowning. With a sigh, he walks past the window and comes into the restaurant.

            “Huh,” Isaac says. “He actually showed.” I glare at him, unimpressed. Jason looks back, eyes going cautious, but he doesn’t move his arm from the back of Alex’s seat.

            Slipping his gloves into his pockets, Derrell says, “Am I fashionably late or just late?”

            “I think you’re always fashionable,” I say with an encouraging smile.

            “Now there’s a bald faced lie.”

            To all of our surprise, Alex stands up and leans across the table. With a hand outstretched, he says, “Hi, I’m Alex.”

            Derrell looks at his hand a second, then shakes it. “Derrell.”

            With a shrug, Alex says, “Sorry, the suspense was killing me.” He sits back down, Jason trying not to look too pleased.

            As Derrell puts his coat on the back of the chair and sits down, I say, “And this is Harry.”

            Derrell gives Harry a far warmer smile when he shakes his hand. “Harry. I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

            “And you as well,” Harry says. “Draco really never stops saying nice things about you. All of you, really.”

            “You too. Good to put a face to a name.” Derrell gives Harry a glance over. “After all, anyone important to Draco is important to me.”

            Harry nods. “Too right.”

            I clear my throat, picking up my menu. “Should we start thinking about appetizers? Harry thinks he’s going to be paying for everything.”

            These fancy lights had better be hiding my cheeks going pink.

 

It’s a bit dodgy, make no mistake. Jason’s certainly getting upset with Derrell, and I can’t say as I blame him. Alex keeps doing his best to make conversation with him—brave man—but Derrell gives him a single sentence response and then continues talking to Harry. I keep wondering if Jason is going to snap, but every time I think he might, Alex will turn to him and smile, and all the animosity will drain from Jason’s face.

            Besides that, I think the dinner is going quite well. Everyone’s meals are good, people are talking, and the baby—Winston, I have to remember that—hasn’t cried at all. It looked a little treacherous for a moment, but then he settled down.

            Of course, the relative calm hasn’t kept me from worrying. Derrell is mostly keeping Harry engaged in conversation, subtly interrogating him, and I can’t keep from fretting that Harry’s going to say something that will force me to obliviate all my friends.

            Harry, so far, hasn’t violated the 2nd. Any second, though, I swear he might.

            “I’ve done a lot things, actually,” he replies to the question of his employment. “I started out in law enforcement.”

            I almost choke on my food. Somehow I get it down without anyone noticing. “Really?” says Derrell.

            “Mm. Four years, all told. Turned out it wasn’t really for me.”

            “I hear the police don’t have guns in England. Is that true?”

            “Yeah, of course not.”

            “How do you keep from being shot?” Isaac asks.

            “Well, they don’t typically have guns either.”

            “Okay, how do you keep from getting stabbed?”

            With a straight face, Harry says, “We’ve magic wands.”

            This time I do choke on my pasta.

            Jason pounds me on the back. “You okay, buddy?”

            Nodding, I grab my glass of water. “Yes, just—went down the wrong tube.” You bastard, Harry Potter. You are baiting me, I know exactly what you’re doing—

            Looking away from me, as if I’m merely a curiosity, Harry says, “Truncheons. You know, retractable ones. They still do a fair bit of damage. Draco, you all right there?”

            “Oh, I’m dandy,” I answer, giving him a murderous glance.

            He tells Derrell that he worked in a bar, and at a shop, and that now he’s in wood working. I have my foot at the ready to stamp on him if he comes out with anything cheeky again.

            Jason finishes his food first, sitting back. “Wow. That was good.” He’s quick to say, “Not as good as yours, but that was pretty good.”

            “You’re gonna split that tiramisu with me, aren’t you? Yeah, you’re gonna split that tiramisu with me.” Alex says to the rest of us, “I make a mean tiramisu, but I can’t exactly get it on the menu. When you say fusion, you can only stretch it so far.”

            “I think you could figure it out, babe.”

            Derrell suddenly says, “What kind of food do you make?”

            It’s the only question he’s asked Alex, and I’m now very nervous. Everyone but Alex seems to feel the same way. Alex just looks happy that Derrell is speaking to him. “Slovakian! Yeah, I run a place over in Bed Stuy, Szábo’s.”

            Looking innocent, Derrell asks, “Isn’t that the place that was reviewed by Myra Klein?”

            Oh God. Don’t do this, Derrell. Please don’t do this. Jason’s cheeks start getting red, and even Alex looks a bit disappointed. “Ah—yeah. Yeah, that’s mine.”

            “One star, wasn’t it?”

            Oh fuck. Jason spreads his hands, and says angrily, “Are you _kidding_ me—“

            Alex just smiles at Derrell and shrugs. “We had a rough patch when we opened. My head chef, she bounced the day before the doors opened, and I had to step in. Let me tell you, after months of trying to get the place open, aw man, I was so tired. Tired like you wouldn’t believe. I totally fumbled the opening. Second day we’re open, Myra Klein comes in, and—“ He grins, putting up a hand. “Oh guys, the story I’ve got to tell you, you won’t believe it.”

            Just like that, he defuses the situation. Harry and I glance at each other, and even though he doesn’t know these people, he can tell a bomb nearly went off in the shape of my best friend.

            Jason, meanwhile, is stewing at my side. The bomb might still go off.

           

“It was so very nice to meet all of you,” Harry says. He leans down with a little wave. “You as well, Winston. You were an absolutely charming companion.”

            The baby is fast asleep. However, it scores him points with Jan, who steps forward to hug him. “Harry—please come back and visit as soon as humanly possible.”

            “I’ll do my best.”

            Stepping back, she says, “It’s so nice that Draco’s finally found someone.”

            “We’re not a couple,” I say for what feels like the thirtieth time.

            “Sure you aren’t, kid,” Isaac says, giving me a bump on the arm. “See you tomorrow—Harry, nice to meet you.”

            “And you,” Harry says with a wave. He leans over, dropping his voice to a murmur. “Is it just me or did they remove his head and put it on that infant’s body?”

            “It’s not just you,” I say, and Harry pulls me out of the way as Jason and Alex step through the door.

            Alex has hooked his arm around Jason’s. He’s very tactile, so I try to stay out of touching distance. Not that he isn’t nice, but I simply don’t know what to do with all that affection. “Are we really done for the night? Anyone want to hit Marky’s, have a beer?”

            Harry looks at me, clearly up for it. I’m about to reply—we might as well, it’s only nine—when Derrell comes through the door. He keeps his back to Jason and Alex, rudely so, saying, “Harry, it was nice to meet you. Draco, I’ll talk to you next week. Gotta go, want to see about catching a cab.”

            Like that, he walks away.

            I glance after him. I sigh. Damn it. Well, I suppose it certainly could have gone worse.

            “Beers?” Alex says hopefully.

            Jason is rubbing his lower lip, looking past my shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” he says abruptly, sliding out of Alex’s hold.

            “No, don’t,” I say as Alex says, “Honey, leave him alone—“

            “I’ll be right back,” Jason repeats stubbornly, striding past us.

            We stand there, and I say, “Well, fuck.”

            Alex sticks his hand into his hair, saying, “I fucked up, didn’t I. I pushed things by talking too much. It was too much too soon.”

            “No,” I tell him. “You were an absolute gem, there’s just—“ I hear rising voices behind me, but I make myself not look. “A lot of history there.”

            “A bad situation,” Harry tells him. “You did your best.”

            Alex frowns, wrapping his arms around himself. “Sorry, I just—fuck, what am I going on about here?” He gestures to the two of us. “It’s supposed to be your big night and I’m going on about myself.”

            I roll my eyes. “It really isn’t like that—“

            Raised voices turn into shouting, and we all take a look. Jason and Derrell are standing at the end of the block, yelling at each other with equal ferocity. “Here we go, lads,” Harry says.

            “They just need to get it out of their system,” I say, but then Derrell almost shoves Jason off his feet.

            “Hey!” Alex yelps, bolting forward.

            I grab him, pushing him back. “Stay here.”

            “But—“

            “Stay there!” I command, and I go jogging down the street.

            Jason is shaking his head at Derrell, shouting, “You wonder why you always end up alone? Guess what, asshole, this is why you end up alone—“

            “Like he’s anything,” Derrell spits back. “He’s just some vapid chaser who’ll ditch your sorry ass when the novelty has worn off.”

            Growling, Jason takes a menacing step towards him. Oh God, I need to hurry up.

            Skidding to a stop, I get between them. “Stop this, the two of you.”

            Derrell throws an arm out at me. “Fuck off, Draco, this has nothing to do with you!”

            “It certainly does when one of my best friends hits the other. I need you both to just step back—“

            “Best friend?” Derrell exclaims, and I still. He grimaces at me. “What fucking kind of friend are you to me? You walk out on me—you take his side in everything—what kind of friend do you think you are?”

            “Oh that’s right,” Jason says over my shoulder, and I have to push him back with my elbow. “Real mature! Alienate everybody who actually gives a shit about you. Keep it up, Derrell, it’s not like you’ve got many people left—that list is getting real small, buddy—“

            “Fuck the both of you!” Derrell yells at us. “You’re both a couple of punk ass losers, who’re never gonna do anything with your lives, and you’re so fucking stupid you like it that way. You don’t even realize how goddamn pathetic—you both—“

            He stops moving. Trembling, he lifts a hand towards his mouth.

            Reaching out to him, I say, “Derrell? What’s—“

            He opens his mouth and spits up blood all over my shirt.

            We’re all stock still for a moment.

            “Oh shit,” Jason breathes.

            “I really don’t feel good,” Derrell says, his knees wavering.

            I grab him by his elbows, but we still go down in a mix of limbs on the cold concrete. Jason skids around us as I try to keep Derrell’s head from hitting the ground. “We need some help!” he shouts.

            “Derrell,” I say, trying to catch his attention. His eyes are open but unfocused. There’s absolutely no strength in his body. Jason lifts his head so that it’s resting in his lap instead of on the sidewalk. “Derrell—darling, look at me. Derrell, can you hear me?”

            He whispers, “Really don’t…feel good.”

            I hear pounding feet, and look up. My eyes widen when I see that Harry’s pulled out his wand. ‘Put that away,’ I mouth furiously. Startled, he stuffs his hand inside his coat.

            “Jesus Christ,” Alex says.

            “We need to call an ambulance,” Jason says, stroking Derrell’s hair.

            “No,” Alex says, already moving away, “that’s too slow. I’ll get my car—I’ll be thirty seconds!” He runs away, as fast as he can.

            Jason says to Derrell, “You melodramatic bitch—don’t fucking do this to me. Don’t do this to Draco. Come on now.”

            “Draco.” I look up. Harry’s staring at me. “Apparate him.”

            “Go home,” I tell him.

            “Draco—“

            “Go home!” I yell. I turn back to Derrell, taking his hands in mine. He’s cold—oh God, he’s like ice, even in my hands. He’s still conscious. At least there’s that much. “Sweetheart, look at me. Look at me.”

            He looks at me, and whispers, “I don’t feel good.”

           

I’m leaning over. I have a hard time sitting straight, like I usually would. It seems better that I’m hunched like this, my suit jacket rolled up in my arms for me to clutch.

            We’ve been in this waiting room—how many hours now? It must be coming up on three. None of us has said much. When we came through the door, Derrell’s arm wrapped around my shoulder, he started vomiting blood on the floor. That got the staff’s attention.

            Jason’s saying my name. I look over. Alex has scooted down, even though he’s taller than Jason by some inches, so that he can rest his head on Jason’s shoulder. He’s gazing at the muted TV in the upper corner with a furrowed brow. Jason says in a hushed voice, so we don’t wake the two kids who are sleeping across from us, “I’m gonna call Isaac tomorrow morning. Let him know we aren’t coming in. He can worry about rescheduling my appointments.”

            “He’ll make a mess of it,” I say without any animosity.

            “He’s a grown man, buddy. He used to run a counter when you were still in school.”

            “Yeah, but he didn’t do it with a computer.”

            Jason reaches over, and gives my back a rub. “You know he didn’t mean it, right? He was just having a freak out.”

            Shaking my head, I look at the wrinkles I’ve worked into my jacket. “He’s right. I’m a shitty friend.”

            “Hey—shut the hell up with that. I mean it. You say that again, I’m gonna hit you so hard they’ll have two patients on their hands.”

            “Jason Marley?”

            We all look up. There’s a doctor in scrubs and a lab coat with a clipboard. I wonder what kind of night she’s had. “Yeah,” he says, and he gets up, following her out into the hall.

            Alex sits up, wiping some of the sleep from the corner of his eye. Sympathetically, I say, “I’d offer to let you cuddle me, but I’m just a lot of bones.”

            Yawning, he says, “Jason’s right. You are way too fuckin’ hard on yourself, man.”

            A few minutes later, Jason comes back. As soon as I see him, I relax. “Yeah?” I say, before he’s gotten a word out.

            Sticking his hands in his pockets, he nods. “Yeah, he’s—got a bleeding ulcer, and probably a couple more on top of that, and he’s anemic, and just generally not been taking care of himself, but as far as they can figure he’s not going to die of being irresponsible any time soon.” Jason points down the hall. “I’m going to go see him.”

            I get up. “I’ll go with you—“

            “It’s one visitor at a time, buddy. Chill out here. We’ll be able to take him home in about an hour.”

            “Well they could at least keep him over night,” I hiss.

            Jason pats my arms. “Okay, man. Nice and calm.” He leans down to Alex. “You okay to drive?”

            “Anything you need,” Alex replies. “Don’t tell him I said hi or anything. I don’t want him to pop another ulcer or something.”

            Jason grins, then sighs at me. “Draco, sit down. You can see him soon.” He leaves again.

            I don’t sit down. I stay where I am.

            I realize a boy in the corner is staring at me. He’s about thirteen, in an Insane Clown Posse shirt. He’s looking at the blood on my shirt.

            To hell with this. “I’m going to use the bathroom,” I tell Alex.

            Once I’m in the bathroom, I take out my wand. I tap the top of my head, casting a disillusionment charm. Oh, I hate it. I really do. It’s like someone cracking an egg over my head, and having it slither down every inch of my body.

            But I don’t intend to just wait.

            I leave the bathroom and no one sees me. Walking down the aisles, I listen for familiar voices.

            It only takes me a minute or so. From behind a curtain, I hear Jason’s low tones. I can just make out what they’re saying. There’s a spare chair. I need to be sure that Derrell is all right. If I just know that—if I’m a good enough friend to know that he’s all right….

            “More meat,” Jason says. “I don’t care if you eat it raw. Red meat. All the time.”

            “Jason,” Derrell says, and I close my eyes at the sound of his voice. He sounds exhausted, but not out of it, like he was earlier. “I’ll be fine.”

            “Say that to me when you’re not laying in a hospital bed, okay?”

            They don’t say anything for a long while.

            “I behaved….” Derrell sighs. “Abysmally tonight.”

            “Yeah. You get away with it this time because you were puking blood. Next time, I’m not gonna be so nice about it.” There’s no missing the affection in Jason’s voice, though.

            “I’m sorry. I just…I’ve felt so terrible lately, and…he’s just perfect. He is actually perfect. And I hate him.”

            “Well, don’t hold back.”

            “You deserve perfect,” Derrell says. “After all the shit I’ve put you through…he looks at you like…well, I acted like a jealous bitch. You happy?”

            “Not really. I want you to be happy, you idiot. I want both of us to be happy.”

            “Yeah.” Derrell’s silent a moment. “I always thought we’d get back together. That it would happen eventually. Even when I left you, I thought we’d end up back together. I knew it was a mistake, and I knew I’d want you back, and there was this…selfish part of me that thought you’d be waiting. But it’s not going to turn out like that, is it.”

            Quiet, Jason says, “No. No, it’s not.”

            “I think tonight’s the first time I actually realized we’d never get back together. So I…Jesus. Would you apologize to Alex for me? I don’t think I could even look him in the face.”

            “I’ll pass it along. Honestly, though, I think he’s just worried about you.”

            “Okay, you have a perfect boyfriend. Don’t rub it in anymore.”

            Jason laughs softly. “I need to know you’re okay. Or that you’re going to be okay. I mean—just because we’re not together, because we might never be friends—it doesn’t mean that I don’t love you. I’m always gonna love you. I need to know you’ll be all right.”

            “You don’t think there’s even a little chance that we could be friends?”

            “If…if you want that…I wouldn’t be opposed. But I want to be clear—“

            “Yeah, Jace, I get it. We’re never getting back together. Things don’t—they don’t turn out like you hope. Like in the stories. Love doesn’t conquer all. I’d rather have something than nothing, though. Is that sorry, or what?”

            “I don’t think it’s sorry. I miss having you around. Of course, you’ll have to be nice to Alex.”

            “It’d be easier if he wasn’t so nice to begin with. Couldn’t you have picked somebody just a little terrible?”

            “Nope.”

            “No. Fair. Shit. What the hell am I gonna say to Draco?”

            I look at the curtains. “You apologize,” Jason says.

            “Yeah. God, I just…I’ve been so mad at him. Don’t tell him, but…I wish I could do what he has. Just walk away. And before you tell me he hasn’t, I realize that. I know he’s still talking to his boys. But he’s actually taking care of himself. And I haven’t been able to do that. Or I have, and just chose not to. It was easier to be mad at him instead of myself.”

            “I think you should tell him that. Odds are, he already knows.”

            “Yeah. Look at our baby, all grown up.”

            “Slowly but surely. I told you. You can’t push him. He’s got to do things at his own pace.”

            “But eight years. Come on now. At least he’s finally got himself a man.”

            “Yeah, well—don’t tell this to him, but that’s not gonna work.”

            “Oh. You don’t think?”

            “No. I think it’s a fantasy that he’s indulged in for a while. He’s a smart guy, though. Sooner or later, he’ll realize that’s all it is. He’s there, but Harry isn’t. Not really.”

            “That’s a shame. I like Harry.”

            “Me too. But, you know. Some things just aren’t meant to be.”

            I get up and go back to the waiting room.

 

Carefully, I let myself inside.

            It’s pointless, though. Harry is still awake, sitting on the couch and watching movies. He looks up, brows raised. “Hi.”

            “Hi,” I echo. I shut the door, tiredly pushing over the deadbolt.

            With a wry smile, he asks, “What time do you call this?”

            “Too late for life.” I tug on my bloodied vest. “Well. Thank God there’s a potion for this.”

            As I unbutton, Harry says, “Did everything—?”

            “He’s fine. He’s a fool who works too hard and who gave himself a stomach ulcer that burst, but that’s about the worst of it.” I put a hand to my forehead, finally letting out the worst of the thoughts. “I really—in my head, it was cancer of some kind. It must be cancer.”

            “Wasn’t though.”

            “No.” Laying my vest over my arm, I say, “I’m not going in to work tomorrow. I told Derrell that I’d go over to see him in the morning, once he’s had some rest, but after two I’ll be free. If you—can fit me into your plans.”

            Harry looks at me, and says, “Draco, I came to visit you. You are my plans.”

            Just a dream. Just a fantasy.

            “Careful,” I say, padding towards the hall. “I’ll start to think things you don’t mean.”

            “Who says I don’t mean them?” Harry replies. I don’t answer. I go to change out of my clothes and get some sleep. Right now, that’s all I think I can handle.


	37. Chapter 37

“I’m not—“

            “Shut the fuck up and get back in your bed,” I say without looking up. Without another word, I hear footsteps walking away, and I can almost feel the aura of Derrell’s sheepishness lingering in the room.

            I finish chopping up the fruits and vegetables, then check on the tea. It’s turned green, so I imagine that means it’s finished. Taking the plate and mug in hand, I walk down the hall.

            Derrell is sitting up in bed, wearing a sweater over an ancient Columbia t-shirt. He has his glasses on instead of contacts. “I’m not an invalid,” he says.

            “Yes, we were at the hospital until two last night because you’re fit as a fiddle.”

            “We weren’t there until two,” he says, looking at the plate I set on his lap. His thin lips pull into a wry smile. “Draco—what on earth is this motley assortment?”

            “Things that are good for your stomach. Strawberries, apples, cranberries, and celery.” I put the mug at his bedside. “Green tea. That should be good for you as well. This isn’t from the internet, I actually read the list the doctor gave you.”

            I climb onto the end of the bed, and after a moment, Derrell picks up the fork. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

            “Of course.”

            He gets one strawberry onto his fork, then looks at me. “Again, last night—“

            “Jesus tapdancing Christ,” I exclaim, “how many times do you think I want you to apologize? The once was all I required. Now you’re being silly. Eat your food, and stop stressing about every little thing.”

            “You know, it’s really easy to calm down when you’re chastising me like a child.”

            “Like I’m being a child, or you’re being a child who should be chastised?”

            “That look on your face, I’ll say the latter.” He chews on a strawberry, then looks out the window towards the mid-day light. “It’s kind of the perfect day, isn’t it.”

            “Mm.” I stretch out across the end of his bed, propping my head up. “I love an autumn day. I don’t have to wear sunscreen anymore, so I don’t smell like a sodding coconut. Leaves are a pretty colour. Boys are starting to settle.”

            “Ha. Your boys are starting to settle because they listen to you.”

            I take hold of his toes through the blanket, squeezing them. “What are we going to do about you, love?”

            Derrell shrugs. “I need to start thinking about that. I don’t…I don’t like the person that I am right now. I’m not in a good place for myself. For the kids either. To be honest, I’m still in the planning stages for planning right now. June’s gonna cover for me for a few days. I need to…I need to get my shit together.”

            “You know I’ve my phone on me every second of every day—“

            “Yeah, I know.” He looks at me from under his brows. “At what point during all these years did we switch from me taking care of you to you taking care of me?”

            “We take care of each other. And you’re the one who taught me how to do that.”

            Spearing a piece of apple, Derrell says, “We landed ourselves in the same place, didn’t we. Only you had the sense to step back before I did.”

            “I wouldn’t call it that. I bailed.”

            “Come on—“

            “I was so scared of killing another kid, I couldn’t stick around another day.”

            Derrell’s staring at me. “Fuck, Draco, that’s not really what you think, is it?”

            “Yeah—“

            “Draco—Jesus, you did everything you could. I’m the one who—if I had called the cops at the beginning of the summer, like I should have—“

            “Should we get into this self-blame spiral? You already vomited blood on me last night.”

            “I just—I hate the idea of you blaming yourself. You went above and beyond. Kid, you always do.”

            “Been a long time since you called me kid.”

            “You’ll always be a kid to me.” He nibbles at the apple. “You know…the last couple months have been…I’ve lost kids before. We’ve lost the same kids before. But this one…I really thought we had him.”

            “Yeah.”

            “I’ve had nightmares about him,” Derrell admits.

            “Me too. What are yours like? I want to know which of us is more pathetic.”

            “I’ll be drifting off and—all of a sudden I’m asleep and he’s screaming in my face, why didn’t I do more. Why didn’t I save him.”

            Definitely no chill down my spine. “That sounds familiar.”

            Derrell shrugs. “Maybe he’s haunting us.”

            I let out a short laugh. “You sound fairly blasé for a man with a bleeding ulcer.”

            Derrell chews on his apple for a while, then says, “I tell you something, you can laugh at me all you want, but I swear, it’s the God’s honest truth.”

            “Colour me intrigued.”

            “When I was six, I saw a ghost.”

            All our years of friendship, he’s never told me this. “Did you really?”

            “Yeah.” He studies my reaction, then says, “You don’t look like you’re about to laugh.”

            “Why would I laugh?”

            “You’re one of the most realistic people I’ve ever met. You must think I’m on death’s door if you’re not mocking me about this.”

            “I believe in ghosts.”

            “Get the hell out.”

            “I do. I’ve seen one too.”

            “You have not.”

            “There was one in my boarding school. One for the house I was in at school. A murderer even. I saw him. He was terrifying.”

            “I can’t tell if you’re messing with me.”

            “I’m not! Tell me about your ghost.”

            “It’s not that impressive. I went outside, and I was in the backyard. At the back of the yard, there was a fence, and you could see the forest. I wasn’t allowed in the forest. I wasn’t allowed past the fence at that age, and my mother wouldn’t say why. But I went out, and there was a boy standing by this big tree, on the edge of the woods. From where I was, I could see he was black, and he was wearing these—“ Derrell gestures to his chest. “Suspenders. To me, he looked kind of dressed up, but that’s to a kid who only wore tees and corduroys. I could just see his back, so I hollered at him, ‘hey.’ He didn’t do anything. I yelled at him a few times, and he didn’t move. Then I thought about my Aunt Denise.”

            His aunt is deaf. She’s the reason he knows some sign language.

            “I thought maybe he couldn’t hear me. So I snuck out of the fence and I went to go talk to him. Only, when I got to him, and I tried to face him—there was no facing him.” Derrell rubs his hand over his graying hair, grimacing. He knows how strange this sounds. “Every time I tried to move around him, it was just his back to me. He didn’t move, but it was—I can’t explain it. It was like he had no front. I flipped my shit, ran back inside, yelling for my mother. I told her what I saw, and she spanked me for breaking the rules. She wouldn’t tell me anything about the boy. She told me that if I ever saw him again, I should come back inside. I shouldn’t ever go near him. After that, well—I was so scared I didn’t go in the back yard again for years. Never saw him again.”

            “Did you ever figure out who he was?”

            Derrell shakes his head. “No. We moved out of the house when I was nine. I always figure I’ll ask Mom about it, but I keep forgetting. Next time. Next time, I’ll remember to ask.” He tilts his head. “Do you believe me?”

            “Of course. You’ll find that, realist or not, there’s plenty I believe that would—well, I was going to say turn your hair grey, but you’re already well on that road, aren’t you.”

            “If it’s good enough for Obama, it’s good enough for me.” Derrell sighs, and says, “You know, I really am okay. You shouldn’t be here, you should be at home—“

            “Of course I should be here. You need me.”

            “Draco, you have company. Isn’t it his last day here? You should be—“

            “I’m where I should be,” I say quietly. “He’ll be gone soon enough.”

            I play with a crease in the blankets. Derrell doesn’t say anything for a little while. I’m left to think while he eats some cranberries.  

            Derrell picks up the mug, and cradles it to his chest. Like he’s trying to get all the warmth he can from it. Should I get him more blankets? “Tell me what the real truth is about Harry.”

            Another day, I might just laugh. But it was a long night, and he scared the hell out of me. And I don’t feel that light thing I usually do at the thought of Harry. I feel rather resigned. Like something has ended before it even began.

            “We’re star crossed,” I say with a faint smile.

            He settles further into his bed, looking at me over his mug as he sips from it. As if I’m about to tell him a story. There is plenty of story, only it’s not one I can tell him. There’s no one I could really tell. Not a single soul on the face of the earth. Not even Harry himself.

            “When it comes down to it…things that happened when we were young…the people we were when we were young…it colours everything. The things I did, it’s affected the way I live my life—if it didn’t, I’d be an extremely shitty person—but with him, it affects it all, whether we want to admit it or not. I might be able to live with it. But I don't think that he could. That we even speak is extraordinary. That he’d be my friend—it really does beggar belief. It’s foolishness to hope for anything more.”

            “You know he’s into you, right? I mean—you’ve gotta have eyes.”

            Biting the side of my mouth, I nod. “I know,” I murmur. “But some things are never forgotten. No matter how much you wish they could be. And better that they’re not.” I lay down all the way, tired to my very marrow. “We can’t have everything we want. The world would be very boring if we did.”

            Derrell sips at his green tea. He doesn’t make a face, so I’ll assume I made it correctly. Blowing across the surface, he says, “You should go for it.”

            After hearing he and Jason talking last night, I’m off my guard. “Do you think so?”

            He nods, then looks over at me with a wistful smile. “Draco—you always tell people to do what they really should, not what other people expect. I don’t know what you guys did to each other as kids, but—man, that was a _long_ time ago. There’s got to be a statute of limitations on that shit.”

            “You’d be surprised.”

            “You’re not a kid anymore, even if you are a kid to me. You’re a grown man, and you make your choices. You want it—fucking go for it. Trust me, you’re gonna feel a thousand times worse if you don’t. You know what hurts more than getting shot down? ‘What if.’ Regret—because you did what people expected instead of what you wanted—that’ll eat you alive.” He smiles crookedly. “Then all of a sudden you’re looking at the love of your life with his _perfect_ new boyfriend with his _ridiculous_ accent and you start throwing up blood on people. I know you don’t want that.”

            “No. I don’t think I do.”

            “So? Do it. Rejection is nothing compared to looking back at the road you didn’t travel.”

            I think about it, then I smile back. “Are you just living vicariously through me?”

            “Hell yes I am. Have you not looked at that man?” Shaking his head, Derrell whistles in appreciation.

            I let myself blush.

 

I mostly expect Harry to be out and about—his last full day in New York, after all—but when I come through the door, he’s back on the couch, with the TV on. There’s several DVD cases lying in front of the player.

            “Did you not go out?”

            “No, I did,” he says, twisting to look back at the counter. “I bought you these amazing bagels!” So he has. “Did you know that they have jalapenos in them? They do that.”

            I smile, slow, because I don’t think I could keep that smile from spreading if I wanted to. “Yes, I have seen that before.”

            He frowns. “Oh. I thought I’d discovered some strange Williamsburg thing that not everyone knew about yet.”

            “You’ll have to try a little harder.” I hang up my coat, and toss my wand on the counter. No missing how he winces at that. I go to sit at the other end of the couch, pulling my leg up. “I’m sorry I was cranky with you this morning. Last night as well.”

            “Your best mate is ill. If it was Ron in hospital, I’d be a raving lunatic.”

            I lean against the back of the couch, looking at him without pretending to want to look anywhere else. He really is almost unbearably handsome. Perfect skin, perfect nose, perfect mouth—and that ring through his septum is just tipping things over. If it was any other man sitting on my couch who looked like this, I would have had him six ways to Sunday by now.

            Harry sees me studying him, and says, “What?”

            “Just a bit sleepy. Don’t mind me. Have you thought about what you want to do tonight?”

            “We don’t have to go out. You’ve had a dodgy day—“

            “No, it’s your last night. I’ll have a nap, be right as rain. Do you know what you want to do?”

            Harry hesitates, then says, “Well—I was wondering—to you, where’s the place where you’ve had the best memories? Someplace to go out, I mean.”

            “That’s easy. Paladin’s.”

            “Let’s go there, then.”

            I let out a laugh. “You want to go out dancing?”

            After a second, Harry shrugs. “Seems I do.” He reaches over, flicking me on the knee. “Do you want to get together some of your friends, see if they want to come?”

            I almost ask if he doesn’t want me all to himself. “I could do.”

            “I like your friends. They’re very interesting. And I feel like I need to win Leanna back over.”

            “Oh, you won’t have to try too hard.” I think about it, then nod. “I’ll text everyone after I’ve had a nap. I’m sure I can round up enough people to make things ridiculous. But you and I—we’ll go to dinner first? Just the two of us?”

            Harry beams, not even trying to hide it. “I’d like that.”

            “Excellent. Okay, shove over.”

            I lay down across the length of the couch, resting my head upon his thigh. I’m rather stunned by my own daring. He’s warm. He radiates it. His leg has gone taut beneath me as he freezes, but I stay exactly where I am, looking at the TV screen. He’s chosen _Coraline_. Well played.

            Harry says, his voice small, “What are you doing?”

            As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, I reply, “Having a nap, and you’re warm.” Shivering, I gesture to the back of the couch. “Help me with that, will you?”

            After a pause, Harry takes the quilt off the back of the couch. Unfurling it, he lays it over me—right over my face as well. My hair is pushed in front of my eyes, and I snort, trying to blow it off my forehead as he adjusts the blanket.

            “You’re rubbish at this.”

            “I really am,” he apologizes. Once he’s thrown the blanket over my feet, he reaches down, and very gently lifts the hair from my eyes. “Sorry about that.”

            “Mm. As well you should be.”

            He doesn’t let go of my hair, and I settle as he does. Harry threads his fingers into my hair. I can feel that his hands are the opposite of mine. Hot, sturdy, calloused.

            His fingertips touch the scar that’s hidden under my hair. I wonder if he’s going to apologize again—I don’t want him to—but instead, he pets it a few times. Then he goes on stroking my hair.

            I close my eyes, and if I was really thinking about it, it might be shocking, how easily I’m able to fall asleep.

 

I take him to Bessie’s, the little place around the corner that’s never very busy, which is a shame. Bessie’s granddaughter gives me a big hug, and lets us take a table that’s positioned beautifully—a little hidden from everyone else, but we can still look out on the street. And we talk.

            We don’t pretend to keep any distance. There are four seats at the square table, but we sit kitty corner, and every so often we’ll softly kick one another’s foot, but neither of us makes any attempt to move. Until the food comes, we sit with our arms crossed on the table, leaning slightly towards one another.

            He talks quidditch, and I don’t tease him for it. I do tease him when he tells me that he’s convinced he’s going to set off a flurry of people piercing their septums once he returns to England. Harry Potter, style icon. “That would be a first,” I say, and he cracks up, putting his face in his hand and looking at me sideways.

            I tell him about visiting Riker’s, the ins and outs, and he tells me about the renovations they’re planning at the Ministry. I tell him about the dress robes that my mother bought me for my birthday, the beautiful ones that I will never wear anywhere. He tells me about the dress robes Molly Weasley bought him for his thirtieth—“Apparently it’s traditional”—and how he has already agreed, against his better judgment, to attend several balls in December. They’re all fundraisers, and he usually doesn’t go, but this year he’s decided he shall.

            We talk about how I’ve made no decisions regarding my future. He suggests things, and he tells me that it’s fine not to make any choices either. He also says he might not be the best person to give that advice, seeing as he hasn’t had a proper job in many years. He’s self-effacing and charming while saying it, and I have the feeling that he might be all right. When he goes home, I mean. I don’t think I’m the only one who’s seen my life change.

            I get him talking about wandwork, and I have to prompt him to take a bite of his food every so often so that it doesn’t go cold. When he asks if he’s boring me with his talk about woods and cores, I tell him he’s not. I’m being honest. I like to see him so excited about something. All the defensiveness from him on the topic has faded away, and it’s plain to see that he’s genuinely passionate about the topic. That he takes pride in his work, that it’s not simply the part time hobby he made it out to be when it was first mentioned all those months ago.

            And for a while, we say nothing at all. That’s fine too. We eat, and the silence is comfortable. He’s not rushing to fill it either. We catch one another’s eyes after a moment, and he smiles at me.

            We are on a date. That’s what this is.

            I am quite all right with that.

 

Because we’re with Leanna, we end up doing shots. Perhaps too many, but with every one Harry inches closer to the dance floor, and he laughs more.

            Jasmine is dancing with Delilah, and Matthias, who’s back with Paul (sadly), is grinding against his boyfriend. Leanna and Joshua are vogueing, and looking absolutely goofy doing so. Harry is giggling as we lean against the wall. I reach out to take away his beer, and he holds it out of my reach. “I’m fine!” he yells over the music.

            I have to shout back to be heard. “You’re laughing like a schoolgirl!”

            “Haven’t felt like this since I was a schoolgirl!”

            Snorting, I’ve another sip of my beer and look around. As usual, the lights are mostly blue. The booths are full—we never had a chance. It’s busy, but not so bad that it’s claustrophobic. My brain is a little wobbly, but after years of going out to bars with Leanna, I might actually be getting used to tequila.

            I turn my head down as Harry stands taller. He’s saying something, but the bass just kicked in and I can’t make it out. “Can’t hear you!”

            He takes hold of my arm as he tries to keep on his tiptoes, and I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of him. The bastard’s wearing some kind of cologne. I thought he might be, but now I’m sure. “You look….” He leans against me, and I lean back. “With the lights, you look—you look like a ghost.”

            I let out a laugh. “I what?”

            He’s laughing too. “I meant it—meant it to be a compliment.” He wraps his arms around me, and it’s a bit awkward, but it seems perfect that way. I put my arms around him, shutting my eyes. “I’m awful at compliments!”

            “You are.” I pat the small of his back. “You’re drunk.”

            “Am not,” Harry says, pulling back a few inches. He puts his hands on my shoulders, looking into my eyes.

            “That mean you’re still too sober to dance?” I ask, taking his hand.

            He bites the side of his mouth a moment, but he’s smiling. “Ah, fuck it,” he says, then takes a gulp of beer before putting the bottle down. His fingers fasten around  mine. Grinning, I lead him out onto the dance floor.

            Just to make him laugh, I spin him up against me, slipping an arm behind his back. He automatically puts his hand to the back of my shoulder, and then he does laugh. “What are you _doing_?” Harry yells over the bass.

            “Dancing! Isn’t this how we learned to dance?” I reply, leading him into the first steps of a waltz, neatly avoiding the flailing limbs of the people around us.

            Pouting, Harry asks, “Why do you get to lead?”

            “I’m taller.”

            “That means nothing! I’m stronger than you by a fair shot!”

            I pull his hand down to my hip, and wrap my arm around his shoulders. “Better?” I bend closer, putting my lips near his ears. “Is this how you prefer it?” He doesn’t move his feet, arching up against me. “Are you one of those men who’re not happy unless you’re always leading?”

            Harry puts a hand on my neck, turning my head so he can speak into my ear. “Maybe I’m looking for someone who’s not afraid to lead, only I’m too shy to say.”

            “You’re so drunk,” I say, and he giggles. I take his hands, and spin Harry out and away from me, then back again, because he’s so gorgeous when he laughs like that.

 

When I realize that what’s going to happen is an inevitability, I stop drinking. So does he.

            We dance until well after midnight, until our clothes are soaked through with sweat and I know what it feels like to have his strong sides under my hands. I know what it’s like to have my hands on the back of his neck, what it’s like to have my fingers in his hair. I know what his hair feels like now. All those years of making fun of him for his hair, and I finally know what it feels like.

            I squeeze my eyes tight as he pulls me close, a hand pushing under my shirt to my skin. When Harry speaks into my ear, I’ve no difficulty hearing what he says to me. “I want to go home.” He nudges my head with his own. “Do you want to go home?”

            Eyes still closed, I nod.

            “Yeah?”

            Open your eyes, Draco.

            “Yes,” I say, and I take him by the hand.

            I lead him off the dance floor, stopping to say goodbye to Leanna. She disentangles herself from her dance partner, giving me a hug, which I return with the one arm. I don’t want to let Harry go. When Leanna hugs him, though, he lets loose of my hand, and I have a moment of doubt. If this is all a fantasy, if this is just a thing I’ve made up in my head.

            Only he threads his fingers through mine when he’s done hugging her.

            We part again, briefly, at the coat check so that we can get our jackets on, but once that’s done we reach for each other automatically. He’s started to giggle again, a thing I didn’t even know he could do until tonight, and I squeeze his hand, teasing him for it without saying a word, only I can’t keep the stupid grin off my face either.

            It’s cold outside, and I shiver dramatically. It’s about a half hour walk home, and I don’t know if this hand holding thing is sustainable without gloves. But then I see the bus coming around the corner. “Come on!”

            We jog down the street together, attached, and reach the stop just in time. The door opens for us, and I bound up inside, losing Harry’s hand again as I pay. I’m giddy, a bit light headed as I walk down the aisle of the strangely empty bus. The only other people on board besides the driver are a couple who are half asleep on one another. Going nearly to the back, I sit down by the window, waiting for Harry to catch up.

            He almost loses his footing as the bus takes off with a jerk. I lunge forward to grab him, yanking him down onto the seat, and we both laugh. “Clumsy,” I mutter.

            “Mm.” He pulls my hand over.

            We sit like that a while, swaying with the movements of the bus. Harry holds my hand on his thigh, then he adds his other hand. I watch as he strokes his fingertips over my index finger. He studies my hand with a crooked smile, turning it this way and that, and not letting go for a moment.

            He looks so happy. I think that’s what I can’t resist.

            I don’t know what signal has been given, but he tilts his head back and I tilt mine forward and we meet in the middle. Kissing him, I can feel how he smiles, and that just makes me smile even more. We’re absolute messes, sweaty and tasting a bit like alcohol, and yet it is a perfect moment.

            Harry kisses me, and I kiss him, and it is perfect.

 

“Faster,” he breathes against my mouth.

            “Oh God,” I mutter, struggling backwards up the stairs. “You’re going to take all of two seconds, aren’t you. You’re one of those—“

            We get onto the landing, and he slams me back against the wall. I actually hit my head, enough that I see the faintest of stars. “Whoops,” Harry says.

            “Ow,” I laugh. He drops against me, and I hug him tight.

            His hands travel down my body, and I make sounds of appreciation. “Where are your keys?”

            “Fuck if I know,” I say, pushing him back. I fasten onto his sleeve and drag him down the hallway to my door. When we reach my apartment, I just grab onto the doorknob. I say, “ _Alohomara_ ,” like I’m threatening it to disagree, and the door pops open. I toss Harry inside.

            The second the door closes, his tongue is in my mouth again. I grab him by the hair, yanking back his head. I lick the length of his throat, coming back to flick at his adam’s apple with the tip of my tongue. He growls, grabbing me by the shoulders, and we stumble through the flat.

            We hit the couch, and for a moment I think we might just topple there—that would be fine—but he stays upright and keeps walking, and so do I. Our hands are everywhere, our mouths are everywhere and maybe I was teasing him about not lasting but God only knows how I intend to.

            He strips the coat off of me, throwing it to the ground. I can’t keep my hands off him, out of his fucking unbelievably messy hair, and he pulls off his own jacket as we stagger through the doorway of my bedroom. Harry wraps his arms around my waist, and with a twist we end up falling onto my bed.

            He starts to bend down to take off our boots, but I latch onto him, pulling him back up. “Don’t care,” I gasp, dragging him on top of me. “Don’t care—even a little—“

            “All right—all right—“

            He rolls his hips down against mine and I cry out. That’s—oh Jesus, I’m not going to last, not when it’s _him_ —

            I’m scrambling for the button on his pants, and he’s going for mine, and it’s like a race—who’ll get there first? It turns out that he does, because—oh. Oh, _God_ , he’s just gone for it, hasn’t he. His hand down the front of my briefs, wrapping around my cock, and I can’t think.

            Him—right.

            Unzip, and I reach inside, and he’s not even wearing underwear, the fucking tease. This isn’t sustainable, not with him on top, so I roll us onto our sides as I start to stroke him. Harry bites my mouth, groaning as I move my thumb around his tip. His prick fits beautifully in my hand. He is so hot. He radiates heat and I want to be close, I want to be closer.

            We try to kiss, but every time we do one of us groans or bucks. Our mouths come together, and everything is so hurried that it’s impossible to concentrate. He is so lovely—he’s here, he’s with me, and he’s in my bed—for now he’s mine, he’s only mine—

            It’s enough.

            I come first, and I really don’t care that I come all over his clothes like a novice. I don’t care that we were so eager we couldn’t undress. All I care is that he made me come, and he’s in my hand.

            All I care about is how good this all feels.

            He only has to wait a few seconds before I return to my senses enough to finish him off. I kiss him, cutting off his breath as he tries to pant. He can’t breathe unless I let him. For this moment, he is only mine.

            There he goes. All over my hand, up my arm. Warm—of course warm.

            He presses his face against the pillow, his eyes shut tight, and he’s gasping, trying to breathe. I drop away from him, because everything seems suddenly so very—real. It’s too intense. Funny that’s happened now. After it’s done.

            I wipe my hand off on my shirt, and I calculate. From front door to this moment—five minutes? Tops? Well, no one can accuse us of being a slow burn.

            I glance over to check on him. Oh. He’s looking down at the bed, and doubt is finally creeping into his eyes.

            I didn’t imagine it would hurt this badly. That was a stupid assumption. Turning my eyes to the ceiling, I murmur, “Don’t do that.”

            “Do what?”

            “Regret me.”

            After a few more moments of lying here, I make myself sit up. I pull my leg up so that I can untie my boots. Reality. Right. That’s a thing that has to intrude.

            Only Harry tugs on the back of my shirt. When I look back at him, the concern has gone from his face. “Take this off,” he says quietly.

            I look at him. “Are you certain?”

            “Everything,” Harry tells me. Taking off his glasses, he folds them, then puts them on the bedside table.

            He gets up, and starts to undress. I don’t do what he tells me. In fact, I stop what I’m doing so that I can watch him.

            He’s no embarrassment, no shame about getting undressed before me. He strips off his shirt, dropping it to the ground. After kicking aside his shoes, Harry somehow manages to get his socks off without falling over. Not so much as a wobble. When he looks at me, there’s no hesitancy about him. I want that to be how he always looks. He pushes his pants down, stepping out of them.

            He stands there, and I look. His body is gorgeous. I can see some muscle, I can see some scars, I can see where the hair starts under his navel, working its way downwards. This is an image I want painted in my memory for always.

            Harry steps forward, saying, “Come here then, love.” He gestures for me to turn, and so I do, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Harry gets down on his knees, and finishes unlacing my boots. He takes me by the back of my calf and pulls the boots off, first the right, then the left. I watch him, every single second.

            When he takes the bottom of my shirt, I lift my arms, letting Harry pull it up and over my head. He sets the shirt down on the floor, then he takes a look at my scars in the dim light. Placing his right hand flat on my stomach, he trails his fingers across the wounds he gave me a long time ago. Where he marked me.

            He leans forward, pressing his head to my stomach, and wraps his arms around my back. I surround him as much as I can, which isn’t saying much. I wrap my jean clad legs around his naked body and reach an arm down his back. I put my hand on his head, rubbing down his neck, and back up into his hair.

            Voice slightly muffled, Harry says, “Do you know what I want?”

            Stroking his hair, I ask softly, “What do you want? You beautiful man.”

            He tilts his head back, looking up at me. “I want you in me. Can we do that?”

            I brush his hair back from his forehead, back from his scar. “We can.”

            With a nod, Harry wraps his arms around me again, and I hold him tight, tight, tight.


	38. Chapter 38

“Did you know that you’re beautiful?”

            I turn my face down against Harry’s chest. “Shut up.”

            Stroking my shoulder, Harry says, “How did I know you’d say that?”

            We’re lying in my bed under the blankets. I’m tucked under his arm, my arm stretched across his middle. I’m on his right side, but if I position my head in the right way, I can hear the beating of his heart.

            Harry reaches up to rub strands of my hair between his fingers. “You are obnoxiously attractive. You really are.”

            “Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

            “You did. But when have I ever listened to you before?”

            “Fair.”

            “Do you want to know when I realized how obnoxiously attractive you are?”

            “No.”              

            “It was right from the start of summer. That first night you showed up in my dream. There you were. The last person I expected, and looking…gorgeous. In your pajamas and everything. I wanted to strangle you for that.”

            “You wanted to strangle me for everything, and I’ll remind you that you showed up in _my_ dream.”

            “No, that’s not how it goes.”

            “How does it go then?”

            “I’m Harry Potter. The world revolves around me, after all.”

            I shake my head against his body with a smirk. “If you hadn’t worked me boneless, I would have to challenge you to fisticuffs or something.”

            “Worked you boneless, did I?”

            “Mm. You are a very bossy bottom.”

            He puts his hand over my mouth, and I nip at him. “Ow.”

            “Don’t try and cut off my means of communication, then.” I pat his side, closing my eyes. “Please always be this warm. It’s nicer than having to put clothes back on after fucking.”

            “I’ll remember that.” He rubs my back, then says quietly, “Draco?”

            “Yes?”

            “Is it…all right? That I said what I wanted?”

            I have to raise my head a moment to see if he’s serious. It appears he is. “Of course,” I say, settling back down. “What kind of men have you been with, if you have to ask that?”

            “You’re only the fifth. Everyone else, it’s always been—one night. The one, he was three times, but that’s only because that’s how long he was in town. Everyone always seems to just…think I should know what I’m doing. I have to be honest—I really don’t.”

            “I beg to differ. I know what you mean, though. I’ve no need for men like that. I’m not a mind reader—well, I mean, I am a little, but I haven’t tried that in years. I don’t just know what someone wants. I know what I like, but that doesn’t mean that someone else will like the exact same. Like, if any man ever tried to push my knees back as far as yours went—“ Harry sighs, and I keep talking, because God knows he never knows when to listen to ‘no.’ “I’d probably snap. I’m just not that flexible. Fair play to you, by the way.” I place a kiss by his nipple. “That was very nice.”

            “I’m glad that made you happy,” he says wryly. “Can I ask—do you usually do it like that?”

            “You mean top? Yeah. Not that I’m averse to the other way. Men just sort of—default when they’re around me.” Harry laughs silently under me, and it’s like being on top of a purring cat. “I don’t exactly think I exude authority around anyone but my boys, so I’m not sure what that’s about. That’s not to say I’m not happy with that. I just like all kinds of things. I never want to be the man who says he won’t do something or try something. If you’d wanted to have it the other way, you wouldn’t have heard me complain for a second. I would have rather liked that, actually.” I look up again. “But this was good. This was perfect, point of fact.”

            “Stop trying to reassure me,” Harry says kindly, giving me a light push back down. “I’m fine.”

            “All right. Good.” I rest my hand in a light fist on his belly. “I just know…you’re not with men that often. I want to know that this was good for you.”

            Petting my hair, Harry says, “This was exactly what I wanted. And I didn’t even know I wanted it until you came along. Funny how that happens, isn’t it.”

            “Yes.”

            “Draco?”

            “Mm.”

            “Are you falling asleep?”

            “No,” I yawn.

            “Neither am I,” Harry says, and pulls me closer.

 

This is a dream.

            I know it is. I can feel it in my bones, in the contours of this place. It’s a tunnel, but it feels like—God, what does it feel like? It’s like the walls are organic somehow. I reach out to touch them, but at the last second I pull away. Somehow, I get the impression that the walls are about to breathe.

            I don’t usually know that I’m dreaming. When that does happen, aren’t you supposed to be able to take control? What is that called…lucid dreaming. Yes. You think you can fly, and so you fly. So—can I fly?

            No. No, it appears that I can’t.

            Why do I know that I’m dreaming? This hasn’t happened since—Harry.

            Is it because he’s here? Are we in a dream state again? Has it happened because he’s sleeping next to me? It doesn’t feel like before. It’s not the room, that’s for sure, the endless room in the white space. This feels far more confined.

            “Harry?” I call.

            _Draco_.

            I turn around. “Harry? Are you there?”

            _Draco_.

            I don’t know if it’s him. Is it him, or is it the wind? Is this another spell, or is it just a dream?

            Was it always just a dream?

            I swallow, then I begin to follow the tunnel. I can see that it branches ahead of me. There’s light, but no visible source. It feels cramped. I have to bend ever so slightly, even though the ceiling is a few inches above me. I don’t want to know what it would feel like to suddenly have it brush over my hair.

            I call again for Harry. Another echo of my name comes back to me. I can’t tell from which direction. I don’t like this. I want to wake up. If I wake up, he’ll be right there beside me.

            Wake up, Draco. You can do this. Just wake up.

            It’s not happening. Fuck.

            Taking a deep breath, I say, “Harry?”

            “Draco?”

            Thank Christ. It’s coming from just around the corner. Picking up my pace, I go towards the voice. “Harry, what are you—“

            I turn the corner, and lights start going off in my eyes.

            I throw my hand up. It’s blinding—fuck! One went off right next to my head. Flashing and clicking and people screaming my name—what’s happening? What the fuck is happening?!

            I fall to the ground, trying to protect my head, and the lights keep exploding in my face.

 

I wake with a little startle. Well, so far as nightmares go, that was bush league, as Jason says. When the epitome of evil has actually taken up residence in your home, you need a touch more than an attack of paparazzi in your nightmares to really get the heart pumping.

            It’s still dark, no telling what time it is. I look over. Harry is softly snoring, his lips parted. I find myself smiling at the sight of him. I turn on my side, and I watch him.

            This is all mad. I realize that. It shouldn’t be happening. Odds are it could end any second. But I don’t want it to. If this is madness, then I quite like it.

            Since he’s asleep, I do what I didn’t dare before. I reach up, carefully lifting his hair off his scar. I wait to see if he stirs. When he doesn’t, I very carefully trace the zigzag over his skin with my fingertips.

            Just a scar. Like so many others. And not at all.

            He stirs, and I pull my hand away. He doesn’t wake. I take a breath, then I push my hands under the pillow, and resolve to watch him until I fall asleep again. I also make a wish.

            I wish that he still wants me when he wakes.

 

I think…I may be waking up. That seems like a bad idea. It feels far too early for that. It’s obviously light out, but my body is saying that several more hours of unconsciousness is definitely required.

            Stretching out across the bed, I come up against empty space. Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I….

            _Right_.  

            I open my eyes.

            He’s not here.

            I lift my head. Oh—daylight. Okay. He’s not here. His things are gone from the floor. My clothes have been folded, and put in a little pile next to the dresser. My boots are missing.

            Has he—he hasn’t just _gone_ , has he? I’ve this terrible feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with my faint hangover. He wouldn’t disappear. He wouldn’t just take off.

            Would he?

            I sit up, and then I hear a quiet sound.

            Okay.

            I get up out of bed, going over to my dresser. I pull on some pajama bottoms, and a t-shirt, then I go out into the hall, being as silent as I can.

            Harry is standing at the kitchen counter. He is so still. He holds the edges of the counter, head bent downwards. I pause at the top of the hallway, watching him. He’s staring down at the cup of tea he’s made, the steam coming off it. I bought that tea for while he was here.

            I can see the rigid lines of his shoulder. I can sense the feelings rolling off him. And I know. No words need to be said. All I have to do is look at him.

            I swallow. Well. Sometimes things…they don’t happen how you intend. Not for all the wishing in the world.

            I walk across the room, and when I touch his back, he startles. He was that caught up. Pausing just a moment, I slip my arms around him, and rest my chin on his shoulder. Harry is unyielding for a few seconds. I shut my eyes.

            But he relaxes. He leans back against me, running his hands over my arms. I sway him gently from side to side, and he exhales.

            Giving his neck a kiss, I murmur, “Come back to bed a while.”

            He nods, and lets me take his hand. I lead him back to the bed.

 

I don’t say anything about how tightly he’s holding my hand. It’s fine. There is a part of me that likes it, actually, and I’m not sure what that says about me.

            Rain streams down the windows of the cab. Appropriate. Far too much. Hindi music plays from the tinny speakers behind our heads, but I barely notice it.

            We’ve said so little to one another today. No teasing, no kidding. It is perhaps the quietest I have ever seen Harry. This morning, when he came, he barely made a sound. Nor did I, I suppose.

            We know what’s coming, even if he hasn’t said it yet. He will. I don’t want him to, but he will.

            In the meantime, I am pressed up against his side in the cab, my fingers woven through his.

            I don’t want this.

            I set my head down on his shoulder. Harry kisses my forehead, then rests his head on top of mine.

 

I pull his stupid pink suitcase through the airport, because to hell with it. I want to. People glance at us—at the suitcase, at how we’re holding hands—but I look back, and they quickly drop their eyes. I dare them to say something today.

            I fucking dare them.

            Security is coming up. And all of a sudden it feels like seconds have passed instead of days.

            I know where I’m going, and he doesn’t, so I’m the one to stop. I give his hand a squeeze, then I let go. “Remember to tip your valet,” I tell him, as I turn the suitcase to stand at his side.

            Facing me, Harry says quietly, “Will do.”

            We don’t say anything a long moment. He’s looking down, or away from me. I try to look at him at first, but I can’t stick with it. I look down, biting into my lower lip. _Like the dragon, we rise. Like the dragon, we rise. Like the dragon, we rise_.

            “Draco,” Harry says, choked.

            God damn it, I can’t let him be the one to say it.

            I square my shoulders, and I put on my calmest, most understanding smile. “I know. This is goodbye.” Exhale through the nose. “Not goodbye for now. But goodbye for always.”

            He shivers. At least there’s that. He starts to open his mouth, but he doesn’t know what to say to me. If he did, I think it would be worse. If he’d planned it out, I’d be more heartbroken.

            “It’s too much,” I say. I know it’s what he thinks. It’s what everyone around me saw, even if they didn’t understand. What I ignored so I could have a few fleeting moments of happiness. “You’re you. And I’m me. And even with what we might want—there’s a whole world around us that doesn’t understand. That never will. That matters to you. So…done now. Better to end it before it gets worse than it already has. This has been nice. But just a dream. Right?”

            Harry grimaces, giving his head a shake. “I’m so…if I could—“

            “Can we—not?” I can’t hear that he wishes he could. But that he can’t. That whatever he feels isn’t strong enough for the effort. I knew that I was more invested than him, but I don’t need or want to hear it.

            Harry nods, then hisses. “I’m—I’m a coward, aren’t I.”

            “I don’t think so. I think you just…I think we just feel differently about things. And sometimes that’s the way life is.”

            “Draco—“

            Enough.

            I kiss him. In front of all these people. I don’t care if it bothers him, I don’t care who sees. I will have this. I’ve my hands on his face, my cold against his warmth, and I kiss him for the last time. I kiss him as if he's mine. 

            When I draw back, I look into his eyes. Those lovely green eyes I’ve been drawn to all these years, that I tried to outrun. It seems that I have finally succeeded.

            With a sad smile, I say, “Goodbye, Harry Potter.”

            I let him go, and I walk away.


	39. Chapter 39

Life goes on.

            Of course it does. That’s what life does. It doesn’t slow or stop because you’re devastated. The people around you will notice. If you tell them what’s troubling you, if they don’t already know, they will sympathize, and then their lives will keep pulling them inexorably forward, and they will forget. What is important to you, in the end, is really only important to you. The world is not forgiving of sorrow. It merely keeps moving.

            The bills still come. People text and ask if I want to go out for dinner, and I go. I unlock the door of the shop in the morning, and I lock it at night. The sky clouds over and clear and cloud over again. The phone rings, I answer.

            October segues into November. It snows. I start wearing my green scarf and my black beanie every time I leave the house.

            Dustin Moreno accidentally rips the door off their fridge one night, and his mother comes banging on my door in hysterics because she can’t handle what’s happening. The other neighbours are woken and I have to call the authorities to obliviate them. I sit with the family while the case workers from NYME talk about coping strategies. I do it because Dustin asks, and because I’ve gotten used to the idea of not living on the other side of the wall from an Obscurial.

            I switch to a different internet provider, because Comcast needs to just collectively die in a fire. Jan and Isaac announce that they’re pregnant again. Michael and I go out for lunch and he tells me all about the animals, and he is the most happy I’ve ever seen him. A homeless woman comes into the shop looking for someone named Ted, and when I tell her we employ no one by that name, she picks up one of the chairs and throws it against the windows, cracking one. We call the police, and I begin the battle of fighting with the insurance company to cover the cost of replacement.

            I go out on my own one night to Johnny and June’s, and I go home with a man who’s nice. He has a well-trimmed beard and brown eyes, and I feel almost nothing for him. I go home with him to see if I’m able. It turns out that I am.

            Ty asks me to cover for him one day because he has the flu. I go in, and the boys who know me are happy to see me. Victor near chats my ear off about his new girlfriend. It’s only been three weeks since I last saw him, but he acts like it’s years. The new boys are far more stand offish. When one of the freshmen gets smart with me, I nod to the door and tell him to fuck off. He’s startled, but he slinks away, and the others behave. My boys smirk. I’ve missed them, but I don’t think I’m coming back here.

            I dream about Evan. I dream about the old days, the bad days. I dream of my family. I dream about Harry. I dream about Evan some more. I don’t sleep well.

            Mrs. E tries to stop me most days when I leave the house, but I’ve taken to listening to my iPod on the walk to work, which makes it very easy to ignore her. We go see The Mountain Goats, and I don’t appreciate it as much as Leanna and Rodrigo. I have to shield my face from Leanna’s attack when I confess, having drinks after the show, that all the songs sound the same.

            My computer collects dust in the corner. I’ve no real reason to open it, save when I decide I want new music on my iPod. When I’m alone at night, I read and watch movies and flip restlessly through channels.

            Jason and Leanna get into a spat that lasts a week, and escalates to the point where they start shouting at each other in the studio once we’ve closed one evening. I get the spray bottle that I use on the succulents and start spritzing them both. They sputter, and I tell them to start acting like the fucking adults they are. They make up the next day.

            Us texts me every other day with questions about magic and school and life, and I answer every one the best that I can. Ty and I go for dinner about once a week. I buy Roderick books, and take his old ones.

            My mother sends a letter before she goes to see my father at Azkaban. I write back, telling her as always that I love her, and to pass my love on to Father as well. I swear I see the house elf hiding under a table in a coffee shop one morning, but by the time I get there she’s disappeared, if she was there to begin with.

            I toy with getting a piercing, then decide against it. Jason asks if I’m in the mood for another tattoo, but I’m not. I get the sides and back of my head shaved down again.

            One night I go out on the roof and I perform spell after spell, just to see if I remember them, if they’ll work. I buy bright pink socks. I briefly consider getting a cat, then decide that’s not the kind of thing to do when one’s emotional.

            I accept deliveries, I purchase supplies. I order food, I eat food. I make coffee, I drink coffee. I wake up, I get out of bed. I turn on the lights, I turn off the lights.

            I go to Derrell’s one night, and I sprawl out on the floor as we watch _The Book of Eli_. He nudges me with his toe halfway through the movie, and he asks, “Do you regret it?” I think about it, the way I’ve thought about it a lot the last month. I tell him the truth, which is no. I don’t regret it.

            Life goes on.

 

“Was thinking.”

            “All right.”

            “I don’t want to be called Us anymore.”

            I look over. Then I turn back to my coffee. “Interesting.”

            We’re sitting on the shores of the Bronx Kill, on an old appliance of some kind. It’s fairly grim out here. The sky is grey, and the ground is covered with snow. I can see the occasional piece of trash float by in the water. But this is where he wanted to come, so here we are.

            “Demetrius, then?”

            “Yeah.”

            Demetrius. I think that’s better, honestly. People tend to be confused when I refer to Us. “Why’d you decide on that?”

            He shrugs. He has his own cup of coffee. I wanted to say he was too young, but he’s seventeen. In the magic world, legally he’s a man. Less than a year, he could kill for his country. Besides, as a caffeine addict, I’m hardly in a position to judge.

            “I was always so proud of my uncle calling me Us because he couldn’t be bothered to holler Demetrius at me all the time. Me always being in trouble and that. Now—seems like a really stupid thing to be proud of.”

            “It really is. I’d say this is an important step in your development.”

            “You know what a wise man told me once?”

            Knowing it’s a set-up, I take the bait. “What’s that?”

            Demetrius takes a sip of his coffee, and says with a straight face, “Piss off.”

            I grin, baring my teeth to the grey skies.

            We turn our heads towards a siren. An ambulance is screeching across the RFK in the distance. I know it’s a dire place, and the sirens don’t really help, but I actually feel fairly calm here.

            “You haven’t said how school’s going lately.”

            “I tell you about school all the time.”

            “You tell me about your assignments. You don’t talk about what it’s like to be there.”

            Demetrius sighs. “Isn’t it enough that I’m getting A’s? I gotta be Mr. Congeniality too?”

            “If we could keep the former while working on the latter, I think it would be time well spent.”

            He shakes his head, scuffing his shoe against the snow. “Naw. I think I’m good.”

            “It’s not good to isolate yourself.”

            “Not great to expose myself either.”

            “When were you exposing yourself at school?”

            “You think you’re funny. You ain’t funny.”

            “I’m _hilarious_.”

            “Looking.”

            “So we’re stooping to primary school insults, are we?”

            “Yes.”

            A breeze comes up off what little water there is. I push my beanie down over my forehead, tucking my hair underneath it. “Is it that they have long memories? Or do you?”

            Demetrius sits on that a moment, before saying, “I don’t want to hurt anybody else.” I thought as much. He leans forward, resting his arms on his thighs. “I feel him, man. It’s like he’s on the back of my neck. I feel him there, watching me. Waiting for me to do one thing wrong.”

            “That’s not a person, Demetrius. That’s guilt.”

            “I guess. Sure as hell feels like eyes, though.” Demetrius sucks his lips into his mouth, then pops them. “You seen his mom?”

            “We had coffee last week.”

            “She…okay?”

            I could lie, but I don’t think I would pull it off. “No. We’re hurt, but it’s nothing compared to what she’s going through.”

            “Is she…mad at me?”

            “I don’t know. We didn’t discuss you, to be honest. We discussed him.”

            He nods. “This is gonna sound like a line from a bad R&B song, but I’ve written her a bunch of letters that I’ve never sent. They’re just sort of sitting in a shoebox in my closet.”

            “If the day comes that I think she’s ready for one of those letters, I’ll let you know.”

            “Okay.” Demetrius looks back. “What about you, man?”

            “What about me?”

            “You okay?”

            “I’m right as rain.”

            He’s not buying that. “Yeah, sure you are.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “You’ve been about as happy as I am this last month. You’ve been sort of messed up…since you had your company.”

            Here I think I’m putting on a good face, and a seventeen year old, with all his many problems, can still see through my façade. “I suppose.”

            “Your company…that your boyfriend?”

            I shake my head. “No.”

            “But you like him.”

            “Yes.”

            “And he doesn’t like you back.”

            “No, he does.” I hunch my shoulders, frowning at the wind. “Just not enough. Sometimes that’s what happens. Nobody’s fault.”

            “That sucks.”

            “It really does.”

            “To hell with him. You don’t deserve that.”

            I smile crookedly. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

            Demetrius smirks. “Don’t get used to it.”

            Swirling my coffee in its cup, I change the subject. Same as I usually do when the topic is Harry. “Do you still fancy being a lawyer when you grow up?”

            Demetrius raises his shoulders. “I don’t know. More I think about it, the more I’m not sure what I want to be. I want to be something, though. What about you?”

            “I seem to be in the same boat. I don’t know what—but I’d like to be something.”

            We sit a moment, then he leans over a few inches. “You, know, it’s not real encouraging, you being as old as you are, and you don’t know what the hell to do with your life.”

            I shove him off into the snow. As he sputters, I say, “Whoops—don’t know my own strength,” and innocently sip on my coffee.

            I get a handful of snow in my face.

 

Leanna keeps smiling until her client is out the door and has rounded the corner before dropping the act. She slumps against me so much that I have to jam my feet onto the ground to keep from being plowed into the wall.

            “I’m an artist,” she complains, “not a _therapist_. No, I don’t know what to do about your ex-husband. No, I don’t think it’s a good idea to get your boyfriend’s name tattooed on your thigh when you’ve only known each other for a month. No, I don’t give a shit about your children, or how the one keeps eating drywall.” She grabs me by the collar and shakes me. “I—don’t—care.”

            “She’s coming back.”

            Leanna instantly straightens, putting on a fake smile. When she sees I’m only joking, she slaps my shoulder. “Fuck you. I hate you.” She strides back into the studio.

            I go back and forth between items for the bank reconciliation. It’s certainly gotten easier since Jason turfed Freddy all those months ago. No more surprise expenses out of nowhere. No, I might have spoken too soon. Who bought $100 of supplies at The Party Palace? What is The Party Palace?

            I raise my head when Leanna comes back. She drops a piece of paper in front of me. “Call him.” She walks back into the studio again.

            Picking up the paper, I look at the phone number scribbled on it. It’s a local number. Wheeling over to the doorway, I hold up the page. “Who’s this?”

            “My neighbour,” Leanna says, breaking down her station. “He’s beautiful, he’s funny, and he’s got a sick sense of humour. You’ll hit it off.”

            Laying the page on my lap, I start to construct a paper airplane out of it. “If I need a one night stand, I’m more than capable of picking up on my own, thank you.”

            “He’s not one night material. He’s dating material.”

            “Yes, and I’ve always been so eager to date.” Making the wings, I ask, “Rodrigo, do you need me to go get you anymore gum?”

            He’s wandering in from the back, looking like death warmed over. “I still have a couple.”

            Leanna says, “He’s really nice—“

            “Turn around,” I say.

            “What?”

            “I want to see if I can hit you with this, and if you see it coming you’ll just duck.”

            “I’ll bet you can’t hit me even with my back turned.”

            “All right. If I hit you, you don’t bother me with random men’s phone numbers anymore. If I miss, I’ll call him in the next five minutes and set up a date.”

            Leanna straightens. “Oh, you’re so on.” She walks about fifteen feet away from me, her back turned. The distance really won’t be a problem.

            Lifting the plane, I flick it forward. It sails across the room, right at her, perfectly straight. At the last moment, Leanna dodges out of the way. The plane, however, swerves, and lands itself quite resoundingly in her bouffant.

            After a moment, the studio explodes with laughter. Jason almost falls over. Even Rodrigo, who’s never good for more than a bark, is chuckling. Incensed, Leanna snatches the plane out of her hair. “What sorcery is this?!”

            “The funny kind,” I reply, and roll back over to the desk.

            Leanna calls after me, “You said random, right? This guy’s not random, he’s my neighbour!”

            I shake my head. We’ll have none of that, thank you.

 

I could just go around the back. Of course, that’s the coward’s way out.

            Mrs. E is sitting on the steps of the apartment, staring at me determinedly. She’s sprawled enough so that there’s no comfortably getting around her. She appears to be wearing at least two winter jackets. That’s good, I suppose. She won’t die of hypothermia. Not that I’m thinking of her death or anything like that.

            Certainly not.

            I walk up to the steps, tugging out my earbuds. “Move, old woman, or I’ll move you.”

            “Your attitude only masks a greater pain.”

            “Your faux shamaness cryptic behaviour only gives away your deep seated mental issues. Please take your medication, and if you don’t have a regular place to stay, maybe try out the shelter down the way. Stop lurking around here.”

            “I have many things to tell you—“

            “No you don’t. You don’t have anything to do, or say. You’re desperate for attention, and you think this is the way to get it. It’s not. Negative attention isn’t attention, it’s just negative. Go away.”

            “I’ve seen things—“

            I’m done with this. It’s a game we’ve played long enough, and I’ve no reason to continue on.

            Crouching down, I smile slightly, and she recoils. I channel all my ancestors, and I say softly, “You’re not wanted. Not here. Not anywhere. And not by anyone. You’re invisible in the end. You like to bother me because I rise to the bait. No longer. You’re invisible.” Leaning forward, I breathe, “And unwanted.” Standing back up, I snap my fingers off to the side as I would at a dog. “Go.”

            Shaken, Mrs. E gets to her feet. I watch her without blinking as she gathers her things. The moment she steps aside, I move past her, and up into the apartment.

 

The snow has stopped.

            I look out the window when I realize. I’m sitting on the sill, wrapped in blankets. The lamp behind me is on so that I can read, but that’s all. I smooth my hands over the pages of my book, and let my head rest against the cool pane.

            Life goes on. I must remember.

            I don’t try and stop myself thinking about Harry. If I did, it would not only be futile but disrespectful. We had a few good months. That’s certainly more than I ever expected from the two of us. For a time, we were friends. For a night, he was my lover. Now he’s gone. I won’t dishonour what we had by pretending it did not exist.

            I wonder how he is sometimes. What he finds himself doing. It’s nearly the end of November, and everything is starting to be decorated for Christmas. Is that a thing he does? Will he decorate his cottage? What will he buy his family for the holidays? Does he listen to carols? I wonder how his wands are, if he leaves the house more, if he’s happier than where I found him at the start of summer. I hope that I’ve left him in a better place.

            Does he miss me? I miss him. I miss talking to him every day. I find that I feel much lonelier now. Strange. He is only one person. I am surrounded by the same people as I was before him. More in some cases. And yet I feel like there is this great distance between everyone and I. Somehow he became my bridge to the outside world.

            Which is why it’s not a good idea to do this again. I have tried, once, and I don’t like where it’s left me. I don’t want to be separate from my friends, from my family, all because I’ve lost one man. I don’t want to give that much power to anyone.

            Life goes on.

            My phone is ringing. Nine o’clock on a Tuesday. Do I want to deal with whatever this is?

            It doesn’t matter if I do or not. It’s my responsibility.

            I pick up my phone. Us—no, Demetrius. He wants to be called Demetrius. Answering, I put the phone to my ear, “All right, what have you gotten yourself into—“

            Demetrius says urgently, “He’s _here_.”

            I don’t understand—oh God, yes I do.

            Sitting up straight, the blankets falling off my shoulders, I say, “ _What_?”

            “I saw him, I actually saw him, he’s in the hall, he’s real, it’s really real, he’s out there, Dre, he’s actually out there—“

            Kicking off the blankets, I say, still not quite believing, “Demetrius—stay calm—“

            “Stay _calm_ —motherfucker, are you kidding me? There’s a dead guy in my hallway—what the—oh SHIT!” he yells, and I hear things falling over.

            “Demetrius? Us?!” Oh God. Oh no. Oh God.

            Scrambling to my feet, I run across the room, skidding to where my wand lies on the counter. The second my hand touches it, I disapparate.

 

I apparate into the back yard, in nothing but my pajama bottoms and a tank top. Running across the snow in my bare feet, I trip up the back steps, dropping my phone. There are no lights on in the house, but I can hear screaming. I aim my wand at the door.

            “ _Alohomora_!”

            The door throws itself open, and I dodge inside. Demetrius—he’s yelling—

            “Demetrius—“

            He almost runs over me as he falls out of the hallway. I grab him, and he nearly punches me before he realizes who I am. Eyes wide, Demetrius says, “Dre—Dre, he’s—“

            “ _Us_.”

            Throwing an arm around Demetrius, I shove him behind me, and hold my wand out. I tremble, as a silver light begins spilling around the corner. Automatically, I push Demetrius back a step. He’s grabbed onto my arm, fingers clamped tight.

            The light grows incrementally brighter, and Evan steps around the corner.

            My insides try to drop out of my body.

            He is transparent and made of silver light. He looks exactly as I remember, his hoodies, his baggy jeans, the hair falling across his face, always trying to hide. There is one very noticeable difference. His eyes are nothing but flat silver.

            And they are fixed on Demetrius.

            For a moment, we do nothing. I don’t know what his intentions are, and I don’t want to provoke anything. I can hear Demetrius holding his breath behind me.

            The ghost opens his mouth and screams at Demetrius, “YOU KILLED ME!”

            He swoops towards us, and I turn around, pushing Demetrius as hard as I can. “Run! Us, fucking run!”

            The both of us go racing out the door, me right on his heels, one hand on him and the other on my wand. I keep myself between the two of them.

            When we hit the stairs, Demetrius falls, and I go down with him. We land on the snow, and I quickly cover him with my body, wand still outstretched. The door slams after us.

            Everything is quiet.

            We lay on the ground, heaving with frantic breaths. “Oh God,” Demetrius says repeatedly, “oh God.”

            I’m freezing. I’m barely dressed, and we’re in the snow—oh for fuck’s sake, Draco, cast a warming spell when you know that you’re out of danger. Are we out of danger? I look for any indication that he’s coming back, that he’s coming for us. The house is silent, and still.

            “It’s okay,” I say, “he can’t hurt you—“

            Every window in the building explodes outwards.

            Throwing up a shield charm, I cover Demetrius again. Glass tinkles against the shield, and drops to the ground. I shut my eyes, This can’t be happening. It doesn’t happen like this. It never happens like this.

            A long moment goes by, and Demetrius lets out a sob. I startle, looking down at him. “It’s all right,” I say, and he covers his face. His hands are covered in snow, but he puts them against his face anyways. I put my hand on top of his head, and watch his house. “It’s all right,” I whisper.

 

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Muggles don’t become ghosts.”

            “Muggles?” says the investigator.

            Shutting my eyes briefly, I say, “Regulars.”

            He shrugs. “It’s highly uncommon, but it’s not unheard of. Fifteen years with the PS, this is only the second I’ve come across, if we can document for certain that the deceased in question was completely without magic.”

            “He was—“

            “For example, he could have had a grandparent who was a Squib. It happens. Same as with Mr. Glenn here being able to see him, except we have proof already of magic in the family.” He ticks something off on his clipboard.

            We’re sitting in the living room as a team goes over the house. Mrs. Glenn is holding Demetrius’ hand in a death grip, looking supremely unimpressed by all this. Demetrius is wrapped in a quilt, staring blankly at the ground as he eats a chocolate bar.

            “Well!” the investigator says brightly. I don’t know what the hell he has to smile about. “The bad news is that apparitions with no magical background tend to manifest in fairly ugly ways. The good news is that they burn themselves out fairly quickly. I’d say that with this amount of activity, you probably won’t see him again for a month, at least.”

            We all stare at him.

            “That’s your good news?” Mrs. Glenn asks.

            “Relatively.”

            She turns to me. “Mr. Malloy, has this half assed Ghostbuster been hit in the head?”

            “Likely,” I reply. “It’s wizarding tradition to drop infants on their heads at birth so they’re as obtuse as possible.”

            The investigator rushes to say, “Mrs. Glenn, I assure you, that’s incorrect—“

            “Of course it’s incorrect, you jackass,” she snaps. “Do you think I don’t know sarcasm when I hear it? I’m starting to think he might be onto something when it comes to _you_ , though.”

            Clearing his throat, the investigator says, “From the information you’ve given us, it would appear the haunting isn’t focused on a location. The ghost appears to have localized on Demetrius, though, so I would suggest staying in the house. He’s the focus of the haunting, not the house, so the house is perfectly safe when the incidents are not occurring.”

            I drop my head, and when Mrs. Glenn speaks, her voice practically drips acid. “Boy, if you don’t remove yourself from my house in the next five minutes, we’re gonna have another ghost on our hands.”

            “Mrs. Glenn, it’s quite normal to be upset in these situations—“

            Mrs. Glenn says to me, “Speak his language and get him the hell out of my face.”

            I fix the investigator with a gaze. “Your interaction with regulars doesn’t just leave something to be desired. Its awfulness defies description. You are upsetting the owner by not being sensitive to the fact that her grandson is imperiled, and your presence here is no longer required. Leave your card, so that we can contact you the next time an ‘incident’ occurs, then remove yourself from the premises before I hex you within an inch of your fucking _life_.” I raise a brow.

            He looks between us all, then withdraws a card. “I’ll, ah—leave this. When you suspect that the ghost is gathering power again, call this number. In the meantime, we’ll enact the standard protection protocols—“ At Mrs. Glenn’s glower, he coughs again, and stands up, putting the card on the coffee table. “We’ll be another five minutes.”

            “Mm hmm,” Mrs. Glenn growls.

            We watch him go, then I fall back against the couch cushions with an exhale. They were about as useless as I anticipated.

            “Well?” Mrs. Glenn asks. “What the hell are we gonna do?”

            “I’ll start doing my research. We’ll work this out ourselves so that we don’t have to deal with these buffoons.”

            “I swear to God, Mr. Malloy, it’s like they don’t understand how people _work_.”

            “They don’t.”

            She turns to Demetrius. “You okay, baby?”

            He doesn’t say anything at first. Then he murmurs, “I knew he was there. I knew it.”

            I sigh. “Demetrius—“

            “I’m gonna go sleep at Michael’s. I don’t care what these people say. I don’t want to be here.”

            “I’ll walk you—“

            Mrs. Glenn smacks my knee. “Don’t be silly. You got no shoes on. You ain’t going outside.” She turns back to her grandson. “Baby, do you want me to—“

            Standing up, Demetrius says, “No. I got it.” He walks away, his head bowed.

            Mrs. Glenn shakes her head. “I swear—every day, this world—it gets _stranger_. And not in a good way.”

            I know what she means.

 

I don’t think I could sleep if I wanted to.

            I sit down at the table, and put my head in my hands. My head is pounding. It’s not supposed to be like this. Muggles don’t _stay_. They go on. They always go on. Evan isn’t supposed to be here.

            But he is. Jesus Christ, he is.

            I’ve no idea if he’s been in my house too or if it’s only nightmares. Every time I saw him here, it was like a regular human being. Not as a ghost. Not like he was tonight. Jesus, what a fucking coincidence, if I was having nightmares about being haunted, and Us was actually being haunted.

            Demetrius. He wants to be called Demetrius.

            What am I supposed to do? I don’t know anything about ghosts. I don’t think people at the NYPS know anything either, and it’s their fucking job.

            I want to talk to Harry. I want to talk to him so badly. He’s the only one who would understand—

            But I can’t. I can’t because he doesn’t want me like I want him. He doesn’t want to talk to me again. Because I’m tainted. I will always be tainted.

            I am alone in this.

            I am so alone.

            I was supposed to save him. It was my job to save him, and I didn’t do it, and now he’s stuck here. Stuck here and terrorizing one of the other boys. What am I supposed to about that? What _can_ I do? I don’t know about this. I don’t know about any of this, I just—

            Something snaps behind me.

            I look back. A crack has appeared across my microwave window. Splendid. That’s just great, Draco. Lose control to the point that you start breaking things like a five year old wizard. Your forebears would be so proud.

            If only Severus could see me now.

            I don’t know what to do. I am so alone.

            The truth of it is, I can only think of one person alive who might be more alone than I am.

            Closing my eyes a long while, I try to take some long breaths. It doesn’t calm me down as much as I would like, but I don’t know that anything can calm me down now.

            Fuck it. Lifting my wand, I murmur, “ _Accio_ paper and pen.” The drawer of my dresser opens, and sheets of paper and a pen slowly sail through the air. They set down in front of me, the papers neatly arranging themselves.

            Setting aside my wand, I uncap the pen. Don’t think about this. Don’t think, just write.

            I put my pen to the paper, and I write, ‘ _Dear Father_.’


	40. Chapter 40

Fingers snap in front of my face. Startling, I smack them away without even thinking about it.

            “Where are you?” Ty laughs.

            Coughing, I give my head a shake. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m just a bit—what were we talking about?”

            “What’s the last thing you remember us talking about?”

            I look up at the ceiling of the restaurant, at a crack that’s starting to look treacherous. “Ah…that’s a trick question. We’ve only just gotten here.”

            Ty looks down at our empty plates. “Yeah. Hole in one, man.”

            I take off my beanie, pushing my hair back before pulling my hat on again. “I’m sorry. I know I haven’t exactly been present today.”

            “What’s going on?”

            One of my boys is literally a ghost and haunting another. “It’s a bit hard to explain.”

            “Try me.”

            “No. I don’t think I shall.”

            Crossing his arms on the table, Ty says, “I have the number of a really great—“

            Gagging, I lift both hands. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to know. If it’s the number of someone you want me to go out with, or a therapist, whatever the case may be, I want absolutely nothing to do with it.”

            I shiver. The temperature has dropped. They say a storm is coming. I haven’t paid much attention. I’ve too much on my mind. I have been up every night for a week and a half, studying every half decent book on ghosts that I could find at the bookstore on Samatchin. I have about fifty pages of research written so far, and the one half contradicts the other. And there’s practically bugger all about regulars who become ghosts.

            It should only be witches and wizards. That’s what I was taught. That is what I was always taught, and now there’s a sixteen year old boy who was tormented in life, and now he’s tormented in death, and what the fuck am I supposed to do about it?

            Jesus, Ty is speaking to me again, and I missed it. I grimace, and he says, “You weren’t listening to me, were you.”

            “I am so sorry. There’s just a lot on my mind. Let me pay for lunch, all right? Make up for my rudeness.”

            “No, I got it.”

            “Really, I can—“

            “Draco. I said I got it.”

            With an affectionate sigh, I say, “Young man, don’t you have student loans?”

            “That I pay on time every month. The rest I can do what I want with, and that includes buying you lunch.” Ty leans back, catching the waiter’s eye, mouthing, ‘The bill.’ He sits back up, and says, “So, something I’ve been meaning to ask you. You might think I’m crazy, but I’m going to put it out there.”

            “Tyrell, it cannot in any way be crazier than the last few months of my life.”

            The waiter comes over, and Ty pays. Smooth as anything, making effortless small talk with our waiter. I think of the difficult, awkward kid that he was, and something inside glows a little. Hard to believe that so little time has passed. Still, it seems like a lifetime.

            Once the waiter is gone, Ty looks me right in the eyes. “What would you think about us going out sometime?”

            “We’re out right now.” No, Draco. Back up. I lift an index finger. “Wait. Wait, I just understood what you meant.”

            He isn’t really—he’s not—he is. He definitely is.

            Well.

            Ty waits for my answer, patient, but with eyes slightly narrowed. He is not asking this on a whim. He has obviously considered this, and decided to ask.

            And I don’t rush to say no. I should—I’m going to, soon as I can speak—but I do give it a thought. He is beautiful. He’s funny, and he’s kind. He’s so goddamn clever. I am so proud of the man he has become. I would be an absolute idiot to say no.

            I give him a smile, and say softly, “Regrettably….”

            Pressing his lips together, Ty nods. “Yeah. I thought as much. But I had to ask.”

            “Did you?”

            “Yeah. Is it because I’m younger?”

            “Yes.”

            “Because I was one of your kids?”

            “Yes.”

            Raising a brow, Ty asks, “Because you’re not attracted to me?”

            I pause, then admit, “No.” He smiles at that. He’s okay with this. He knew what my answer would be before asking, and he went ahead anyways. Brave man. “I’ll be quite honest with you. You are a remarkable man, and I am so very happy to be your friend. In different circumstances, I would probably take even longer to consider my refusal. You are—you are ideal, honestly. And you will make someone extremely happy. The thing is—“ I wrap my arms around myself. “I’ve had my heart broken quite recently.”

            Ty’s face falls. “Oh. You didn’t—you haven’t said anything—“

            “No. I felt a bit silly about it, I suppose. I had my own bit of testing the waters, even knowing it wouldn’t work out. Only I got in deeper than I imagined I would. And I’m not—I am not eager to repeat the experience.” I look him over, and say, “I can tell from your face that we’ll still be friends.”

            “Of course we will. I mean—I had to. I just don’t think you get it.”

            “Get what?”

            “No one in their right _mind_ wouldn’t take a shot with you.”

            I blush, deeply, and wave him off, grumbling. He laughs at me, and I’m not at all worried about how things will be going forward between us. Ty will be okay. We’ll be okay.

            Propping up my head, I say, “So you’re looking to date, then?”

            “I’m in one place for the foreseeable future. I’ve been thinking about it.”

            A thought occurs to me, and I groan. “God, if only you were fifteen years older. I would gift wrap you and throw you at Derrell.”

            Ty cracks a smile. “Don’t I get any say in this?”

            “You’re both lovely. You deserve to be happy.”

            He’s about to speak, but he stops. “Huh.”

            “What?”

            “I just had a thought. About Derrell. My advisor, he’s—“ Ty spreads his hands, giving me meaningful eyes. “Pretty goddamn fantastic. Cornell, I told you about him.”

            “Yes you have. Isn’t he the one whose partner passed away?”

            “Yeah, two years ago. Cancer. He’s got a little girl, she’s like ten. He’s a great dad. Brilliant. Hilarious. He was telling me just the other day that he got set up on a date for the first time in forever, but the guy was too young and shallow for him. If Derrell’s anything….”

            “It’s not young _or_ shallow.”

            “I wasn’t going to say the young part.”

            I think about it, then I look at Ty. He raises his brow. “We could do this,” I say thoughtfully.

            “We should definitely do this,” he agrees.

            The two of us matchmaking. What could possibly go wrong? He smiles, and I smile back, but I can’t help but feel a little sad.

            Another road not taken.

           

I’m still brushing the snow off my jacket when I get to the top floor. For some reason, Dustin is sitting outside my door.

            “Hello,” I say, and after trudging through the budding storm, I’m really not in the mood for whatever crisis he might unleash on me.

            Getting to his feet, he holds out a battered envelope. “A weird postman came with this for you.” Dropping his voice, Dustin whispers, “I think he was _like us_.”

            “Stupid red hat?” I ask, and Dustin nods. Yeah, that’s the international post. I take the envelope, which looks like it’s seen several wars and at least one insurrection. Flipping it over, I have to brush it off to see the return address.

            Azkaban.

            Right.

            “He gave this to you to hold onto?” I ask, taking out my keys.

            “Yeah. He wasn’t dressed for snow. He asked me if I’d wait for you to get home and I said yes. He called me a good little wizard.” Dustin frowns. “I’m not little. I’m average for my age.”

            “Yes, I suppose you are. I have to go inside now. Thank you for looking after this for me. I really do appreciate it.”

            As I step inside, Dustin says, “It feels sad.”

            I turn to look at him. “Sorry?”

            He looks at the envelope in my hands. “It sounded like people crying. It came from a bad place, didn’t it.”

            “Yes,” I answer quietly.

            He frowns at the envelope, then says, “I’m gonna go play some video games. Bye.” And off he goes.

            I stand here with the door open, the letter in my hand. I think I have to go somewhere else to read this. I don’t think I want to be alone when I open this letter.

 

_My dear son,_

_I cannot convey to you my joy at receiving your message. Perhaps you will think me selfish and cold for saying such a thing, given your obvious distress when you composed it. Perhaps I am selfish. I was happy merely to hear from you. It is not a thing I can or will apologize for._

_Your mother’s visit was, yes, most appreciated. I have a picture of her in my mind. When I look at this picture, she is the loveliest thing in all creation. When she actually stands before me, she is even lovelier still. She is my constant, and has been these past thirty five years. I know that when I leave here, I will return to her, and that she will be waiting, and that is always a great comfort._

_The change in administration has certainly been good for me, as well as many others. We no longer sleep on the ground like animals, and we are allowed to bathe more than the once a year. To think that this is where the bar has been set for my satisfaction is mortifying, but every minor comfort gained is still a triumph. I am allowed more than the one book at a time, and I may write and receive as many letters as I please. We have access to healers, which was minimal at best before. They put me before a mind healer once a week. I do not think it is a thing that is needed, but nonetheless it is not disagreeable to have someone to speak to occasionally. It has definitely increased the quality of life for many others. The screaming is not as constant as it once was._

_I am pleased to hear that you are no longer working in that dangerous place with the muggles. Your mother has told me about it, and it seems a terrible vocation. I hope that there is some part of you that will hear the advice of your father: there is more waiting for you. This world is yours, as it has always been. If only you would seize it. You are not like me. You are not a prisoner. You have so very many gifts, and yet you choose to squander them on beings that do not understand or appreciate your efforts. The wizarding world awaits your return. You might not believe me, but I assure you of its truth. It has a hole that must be filled, even if it is unaware of this absence. You are the only one who can fill it. If you tried, you could bring honour to our name once more. I beseech you, come home. Your mother waits for you. I cannot care for her from here, and that is perhaps my greatest shame. Your mother needs you. I beg of you, return to the Manor._

_It saddens me that you are so distraught over the loss of this boy. It is most peculiar that he has returned. In my many years, I have never heard of a muggle returning as a spirit. I did not think them capable. Perhaps he was a Squib? If it was as you said—that he meant to harm others, but only harmed himself—perhaps he has returned to finish his task. Yes, your mother informed me that your aunt still resides at Hogwarts. Her task is the same as his, I believe: to rid the world of undesirables._

_As you read this, I imagine you thinking that I am wicked. That I am a man with no heart. The people who will read this letter before it leaves here will likely think so as well. After so many years in this place, I find that I do not have the patience to lie about these matters. It does not matter to me that a muggle is attempting to harm other muggles, even after death. What only bothers me is your reaction to it._

_You will believe me callous, but this is the truth of it: I will not lie to you. I told you certain mistruths when you were young in an effort to shield you. I told you the same things my father told me, and that his father told him. When the time came, I cast aside the blinders of childhood and saw the world as it truly was. You are the first in a long line who has not made the sacrifices intended, and it pains me. I do not know the words to tell you the hurt you have caused, nor how to make you return to where you are needed. You have allowed this strange sentimentality to invade you, and so you care more for strangers than your own kin. You love muggles more than your own kind. You are a wolf who lives among sheep. That does not change. Time does not alter that which we truly are._

_The world is comprised of predator and prey, those with power and those without. We are the dragons of the world. You wish to call me monstrous, you may. Only I speak to you the truth. You are my son. There is more of me in you than you dare to admit. You are stubborn. You are beautifully stubborn. In the end, I know you will do the right thing._

_Do not pretend to weep for a lost muggle. They die every day, and they do not go on to where we go. They are not the people who will truly love you forever. We are. We are waiting for you._

_I also will not pretend to be remorseful that this affair of yours has come to an end. I will presume it was with a muggle, if only so that you could shock your mother and I. They do not love as we do, Draco. What you seek, you will not find with muggles, nor with another man. Two men cannot love one another as you deserve to be loved and to love. Only a man and a woman can love one another in such a way. As I love your mother, and as your mother loves me. It breaks my heart, to imagine you living this life with no hope of real, lasting happiness. You are thirty years old, my son. It is time to stop this futile rebellion and accept the reality of the world in which we live._

_Yes, I can almost hear your rebuttal. What could this old man know? He has been locked away in Azkaban for over twelve years. He does not know how things really are. Except I do. Some things do not change, even with the passing of decades. A man cannot deny his nature._

_Your nature is this: you are a Malfoy. You want to play at encouraging philanthropist, holding a hand down to those beneath you. This is not what you really are. We are cold. We think of ourselves first. We do not shy from difficult actions, from violence, because we know that is what is necessary. The world does not change because a man whispers. It changes because he remakes it by force. You have spent so many years denying what you are, even to the point of refusing your own name. This is pointless. You are my son. I will always be in you, more than you can imagine._

_I must admit, I take offence at your assertion that your fifth birthday was a manufactured day. As if there was something insidious about it. Did you not have a perfect day? Did you not say, even now, that it is the best day of your life? The truth is, Draco, you show your colours by misunderstanding a key part of that ritual: you believe the day was only for you. You have forgotten your mother and I in this. Did you not consider how we felt about it?_

_The truth of it is, I know you have not. This is because you are not a parent. And it pains me more than you will ever know to say that. What you have done to yourself is a travesty. Our line has lasted a thousand years, and now it ends with you. You told me this was your revenge upon us, but you have not understood what it is you have done. You will never have children. You will never know the joys of seeing your creation come into this world, to think and learn and speak. To love. You know the mistake you have made—you long for children, with your sad muggle surrogates—but you have harmed yourself far more than you ever could have me by your action. I think of the best day of my life, Draco, and it was not the day when I was five. It was the day that you were. You will never know love like that, no matter how you try. I am so sorry you will never experience that._

_I believe you wrote to me seeking comfort, a voice reassuring you that you are behaving as you ought to, that you have done what you could. However, I am your father, and it is not my task to tell you what you want to hear, but rather what you must hear. You have behaved poorly these years. You have been selfish, and foolish. Did you think you would hear an apology from me? I have done nothing that requires apology. I only did what was best for my family, and for you._

_Now you must do the same. Leave that place, and go back to where you are meant to be. The past is not a thing that can be outrun. It is the very blood in our veins. My blood is in your blood, and it is calling you home. You know that I am right. No matter how you may delay, there is no escaping who and what you really are. The truth is waiting for you. It is not a thing to fear. It is a thing to embrace._

_I hope that you will take these words to heart, and I will await your reply. In the meantime, take care of yourself, and your mother._

_All my love,_

_Father_

 

With shaking hands, I fold the sheets up. I set my fingers on top of them, staring at the yellowed parchment the poisoned words are written on.

            He does not know me. And I do not know him.

            There is not just an ocean separating me from my father. There is a galaxy. A universe. A dimension, perhaps. He has no idea…absolutely no idea.

            And he is unrepentant.

            I was so stupid. To think that he would listen to me. That he would offer me some comfort, that he would actually hear me for once. All he heard was an opportunity to superimpose his own fucked up values over mine.

            _I will never be a parent. I will never know what it is to love a son_.

            That bastard. That cruel, delusional prick.

            “Hey, we’re—“ Whoever is speaking pauses. I look up through watery eyes. The barista doesn’t know what to do. Shifting uncomfortably, he gestures to the door. “We’re closing early. So people can get home before the storm.”

            I nod. “Right,” I rasp. The coffee shop has emptied out, and the wind is beginning to howl outside. “Give me just a moment, and I’ll be out of your way.”

            I stand up, slipping the letter back into the envelope. “Can—I get you anything?”

            Brushing under my eyes before the tears can fall, I say, “No. Thank you.” He’s still looking at me with concern. I give him a weak smile. “Family drama, is all.”         

            “Say no more.” He holds up a hand. “Wait—before you go.”

            He dodges back behind the counter. I pull on my coat, then wrap my scarf around my face several times. It’s only a block to my apartment, but it’s starting to look ugly out there.

            The barista comes back with a huge cup of coffee. “There. That should keep you warm for a few minutes.”

            “Oh—thank you. That’s very kind.” I take the letter, shoving it in my pocket, and I walk towards the door.

            “Anything for my hero.”

            Confused, I say, “Sorry?”

            Blushing, he says, “Oh, just—one time, you stood up for me in front of this awful customer.” He smiles, then unlocks the door. “Stay safe.”

            I should ask for his name. I should ask for his number.

            “You do the same,” I say, slipping outside.

            The wind smacks back against me, pushing relentlessly at me. It’s absolute brass monkeys right now. I can barely see my apartment through the whirling snow. Well. I don’t suppose I’ll be leaving the flat again tonight. I put my head down, pushing through.

            _I’ll never be a parent. I’ll never know what it’s like to love someone like that_.

            My pocket is warm. No—no, my pocket is _hot_ —

            Fuck me! The letter is on fire in my pocket! I smack at it, trying to extinguish it. Flames lick out at my coat. Oh, what the hell do I—

            I take the lid off the coffee cup and toss it at my pocket.

            And that does the trick.

            Awesome. I’ve cried in a coffee shop, lost control of my magic again like a fucking child, set my coat on fire, and now I’m covered in coffee in the middle of a blizzard.

            This day is just _splendid_.

 

The wind is screaming outside my window. At last I grow sick of it, and hold out a hand for my wand. It sails across the room into my hand. Casting _muffliato_ around the entire apartment, I watch the snow swirl past the window as I settle deeper into the couch.

            I’m listening to Sufjan Steven’s _Seven Swans_ because I’m depressed and it’s an album that won’t pretend to cheer me up. My head hurts. I thought about taking some of the dreamless sleep in my medicine cabinet, but when I looked at it I discovered that it was six months past expiry. Even wrecked as I feel at the moment, I don’t think I need to know what the effects would be of trying the potion anyways.

            Am I a good man?

            I think that I am. I don’t believe myself to be my father’s son. I’ve done all that I can to live a life that I’m proud of. I try to live without the prejudices of my youth. I have tried endlessly to make redress for my crimes. Is there not a point at which I can stop?

            The problem is that I have stopped. I think about going back to the center, to the boys—to the constant need I face there, and my stomach turns. That is shameful. I ought to be smacked. These are children, who were born into circumstances they cannot control, and here I am shying away from them because, what? I’m tired? I’m burned out?

            Because I failed to the point that one of them has returned from the dead?

            Am I staying away because I am selfish or because I fear for them? Can it be both?

            I should have never sent that fucking letter to my father. It was naïve to think that he might have changed, even in the slightest. But even now, I don’t hate him. I love him. He is a terrible person, and I should hate him. His love for me is bound up in bigotry and blindness and I should never give him a second thought.

            Only what if he’s right? What if I never have answers? What if I never find what I want?

            I don’t even know what it is that I want.

            I wanted Harry. Except he’s gone. And he’s never coming back. He couldn’t love me the way I love him. I don’t hate him either. Not even a little.

            I just miss him.

            Maybe I should just go to bed. It’s not all that late—it’s only nine, but I had a look outside. There’s no one on the streets. The world has retreated, and all the usual rules seem opaque. I can crawl into my bed, and I can shut my eyes, and I can go to a dark place, and for a while I can stay there. I just want to not think for a while.

            Ha. Of course. My phone starts ringing.

            I look at it on the table. It vibrates as it rings, so it moves slightly across the table top. Whatever it is, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to talk to anyone, I don’t want to do anything—

            Which is selfish. And I don’t want to be a selfish man.

            I pick it up, and it’s a good thing I have. Demetrius. Answering, I put the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

            Breathless, Demetrius says, “He’s back.”

            I sit up with a start. “ _What_?”

            I can hear the wind on the other side of the phone. He’s outside—what the hell is he doing outside? “He showed up in my room—so I went to the living room. And I thought, fuck this, so I got on my boots and I went outside and I just started walking, only he keeps showing up.”

            I’m already at my door, shoving my feet into my boots and zipping them up. Pinning my phone to my ear as I struggle into a sweater, I say, “What’s he doing?”

            “Nothing, just staring at me—“ Whatever he says next is lost under the wind.

            My coat is soaking in the tub, because of course it fucking is. “Has he done anything? Tried to hurt you?”

            “I can barely hear you—shit, there he is again.”

            “Walk the other way.”

            “What the hell do you think I’m _doing_?”

            Wrapping the scarf around my neck a few times, I grab my hoodie to yank down over my head, quickly putting the phone back to my ear. “Where are you?” He speaks, but it’s muffled. “Demetrius, speak up, I can’t hear you—“

            I can hardly hear what he’s saying. “—intersection—old—you—laundromat—“

            Snatching up my wand, I say, “Demetrius, speak up—“

            “Oh fuck.”

            “What? What is it?”

            Most of what he says is lost. All I hear is, “Cop—Ly—“

            The line goes dead.

            “Fuck,” I say, and I disapparate.

 

I can only guess that he meant the old laundromat by his house, the one that is burned on the inside. So I come out there, and I’m nearly thrown back by the wind. It is almost reaching gale force, and I’m not dressed for this—

            Doesn’t matter. Demetrius. I need to find him.

            I turn in a circle, and I see him. He’s half a block away from me, hunched over in the cold with his hood up and his hands in the pockets of his inadequate jacket.

            The problem is the cop car between the two of us and the two officers standing in front of him. Even through all the snow, I can tell the one is Lyman. The street is empty save the four of us, and if that’s not a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is.

            I shove my phone in my pocket and I start running.

            They’re yelling at each other. “Take your hands out of your pockets!” Lyman shouts.

            “I don’t have no gloves!”

            “Hands! Now!”

            Demetrius scowls. He shakes his head, and he looks murderous. “Fine! You know what? Fucking fine!”  He starts to take out his hands.

            And things…go… _wrong_.

            “Gun!” Lyman yells, and he and Hansen both draw their weapons. Demetrius recoils, eyes widening with horror.

            No.

            _Levicorpus_.

            I’ve lifted my wand and cast without even thinking about it, and the two officers are snatched off their feet by invisible forces, hanging in the air by their feet. They’ve both dropped their weapons in shock.

            I throw my arm to the side. Hansen goes flying, hitting the closest building with a crack. He falls into the snow, limp and unconscious.

            Demetrius has fallen onto the ground, staring up at Lyman in disbelief. I put myself between the two of them, pointing my wand at Lyman.

            “Go home, Us.”

            “Dre—“

            I yell, “Go home!”

            I barely hear him get to his feet. I don’t hear the wind. I don’t hear Lyman’s cursing as he wriggles like a worm on an invisible hook.

            But I do see red.

            “You,” I say.

            I throw him down on the ground, but before he can get more than an inch, I cast at him again.

            “ _Imperio_!”

            He stands stock still, lips pressed together, and arms down at his side. I let him move his eyes all he likes. I can see how scared he is that way, and I love it.

            “You would have killed—my child,” I say. My grip is so tight on my wand that I wonder that I don’t snap it. “You would have murdered him. And no one would have known, would they? You probably would have just driven away. Let the snow cover him over—like he was nothing. He’s nothing to you, isn’t he? _Isn’t he_?!”

            I slash my wand through the air, cutting across his chest. He lets out a whimper. How dare he. This is nothing. He doesn’t know fear. Not yet.

            “They’re all nothing to you—my boys are nothing to you, you coward. Do you like hurting people who are weaker than you? Do you really like it? I think it’s time you experienced it for yourself. It’s only fair.”

            I guide him with my wand to pick up his gun. His eyes are bugging out of his head as he raises it. He’s squealing as I force it into his mouth.

            “Does it feel good now?” I ask, as I make him cock the gun. “Does it feel good?” Advancing, I force the gun deeper into his mouth. “I _asked_ —does it—feel—good?”

            He shrieks around the barrel of the gun as I push him down on his knees with my wand. I can hear that over the wind, and it is beautiful, and it is grotesque, and it is nowhere near enough.

            I shake my head at him. “Too easy. You don’t think you get to escape with just a bullet through the head, do you? Not after all the suffering you’ve caused—the humiliation—the degradation you’ve put my boys through—you’re supposed to protect them, and you—“

            It is too much.

            I throw the gun out of his hand, and I scream with all my might, “ _CRUCIO_!”

            He twists backwards, screeching. His body contorts, every bone and muscle trying to go in an opposite direction, and I pour everything I have into this moment.

            He is a monster. He is a monster and he would hurt my boys, he has hurt boys, he is supposed to keep them safe and he hurts them instead and he would have killed Us and he must hurt, he must hurt and hurt and _suffer_ , I will make him _suffer_ and _suffer_ and _suffer_ and that is good, it is good, it is so very good.

            I hear the cracks of people apparating, and I react. I cast a shield around us both using only my hand, even though it hurts, even though it feels like someone has sunk an axe into my brain. He doesn’t get away that easily. He has to know. He has to understand what he’s done. I will _make_ him understand.

            The snow melts away beneath us, and everything is vibrating. I am aware of it, but not really. I am aware of people screaming at me to stop, but not really.

            What matters is him.

            What matters how he lifts his back off the ground in agony, limbs splayed. His mouth is wide open and he is howling and this is good. This is justice. This is what should happen when something is wrong. People should not be forgiven. They should suffer. It is the only way they learn.

            Something thunders off the barrier, and I taste blood in my mouth, but that seems right. It seems right that this night tastes like blood. Lyman’s bitten through his tongue. He’s coughing out blood with every scream, and it’s beautiful.

            This is what I was made for.

            No.

            Not, it’s not.

            I blink. My eyes are stinging. There is something in my eyes. There’s something red in my eyes.

            There are people beyond the shield. People in black robes with their wands out, yelling at me to stop. I can’t stop. They’ll take me away if I stop.

            But Demetrius is outside the shield too. He’s screaming at me. He is begging me to stop.

            I can’t stop. This man has to know what he’s done. He has to pay.

            Only Demetrius is screaming. He’s begging me to stop.

            And beyond, I glimpse the shape of the boy I lost. He is barely visible in the snow, but he is watching me. Any moment now, he will disappear. I don’t want to disappear too.

            I need to stop. So I do.

            I lift my wand, and Lyman falls limply in the snow. My hand is still extended, holding the barrier. I’m bleeding from my fingernails. That’s odd.

            I raise my hand.

            I fall.


	41. Chapter 41

I am going to prison. Hopefully it is more spacious than the cell I am in now.

            The room is enchanted. It fits what space I need horizontally. The ceiling is about ten feet up, and the room is white, and the lights are fully on for an indeterminate time throughout the day. Then they are lowered to half brightness. There is a wooden bench that I sit or sleep on.

            When I sit on the bench, the room contracts to about two feet across. Width wise at least. From here to the door looks about four feet, but if I get up and try to move to it, the room will shrink, and I don’t care for that. I spend most of the day lying on the bench, because then the room expands to just over six feet in width, and I feel more like I can breathe.

            I have been here three days. These are the cells at the New York jail. Once I have entered my plea this afternoon, I will be sent to Raczalock. I hope they don’t bring me back here first. The guard told me that things move very quickly here.

            After seeing what the regular New York justice system is like, I have to say it’s refreshing.

            The guard, whose name I am not allowed to know, has been there every time the door opens or closes. He is about seven feet tall and with a nose that looks like it’s been broken more times than one could count on both hands. He was very curt at first, but when I demonstrated that I was not going to be any trouble, he became much more polite. Still, he’s a prison guard and I am a criminal, so there’s only so much civility allowed, of course.

            I woke up in this room, with a terrible headache, dressed in these awful pajamas. They are nylon, and I really don’t care for that. At least they are pale green. One has to take positives where one finds them.

            I am a dark wizard who tortured a New York City police officer. I imagine I am going to jail for quite a long time.

            Unforgivable Curses were always a lifetime sentence in Azkaban. I can’t recall what they are here. Not lifetime. Given the nature of my offence, though, I’ll probably be made an example of. I don’t know who they think they’re making an example to. I’ve no contact with the magical community here. No one is going to say, “That Draco, he always seemed like such a nice man. I can’t believe it. I shall have to make sure that I never emulate his behaviour.” No, they’re far more likely to say, “Well, what do you expect? Wasn’t he one of those evil ones from England? Besides, he had nothing to do with us.” And then they will all go about their days.

            I wonder if the papers in England have picked this up. If they have, I can imagine the histrionic articles. ‘Supposedly Reformed Death Eater Shows True Colours, Attacks Muggle Police Officer.’ That will be the story.

            And that’s fine. Nothing I can do about it now.

            I’m not even that upset. I mean, yes—it is quite awful that I am going to prison, and I won’t lie and say I’m not scared. Of course I’m scared. But I find that I’ve accepted what’s going to happen without any moments of denial. Maybe in some small way, I know that this is where I was always headed.

            Perhaps I am, in the end, only my father’s son.

            And if I have to go? I go, knowing that Demetrius Glenn is going to live. He is not another young man taken too soon before his time, lost amongst the names of dozens of others, remembered only by those who loved him. Demetrius Glenn will grow up, will be a good man, and he will do amazing things.

            I believe that. I believe it with all I have.

            So I can’t regret what I’ve done. Even if my friends don’t know what happened to me. If I just disappear. If the whole world thinks that I am a monster, if they don’t know that I am more than just that. I am a monster—and always have been—but I am also a man, with a messy, full, glorious life, and I’ve loved and been loved, and I will carry that as long as I can like a little light, through whatever dark place they send me. If the world does not know who I am, that’s fine.

            I know who I am.

            I lost one boy this year. But I saved another.

            That is what matters.

 

The room suddenly works itself into more regular dimensions. Is it time to go already? Usually time here passes at a snail’s pace. I’m beginning to understand why my father was so ballistic when I went to visit him, and I’ve only had a taste. It can’t be lunch time. I’ve only just had breakfast.

            The door opens, and the guard—who I’ve begun thinking of as Broken Nose, if only so I can give him a proper identity in my mind—walks in with a clipboard and a pen. The door seals behind him.

            “You’ve got visitors,” he says.

            I raise my brows. That makes no sense. No one knows I’m here. I don’t know anyone in the magical world who would come see me here, and it’s certainly not like my friends would know where to find me. Teseli, maybe? God, not Demetrius. He was involved, he would know about this place. I sure as hell do not want him having to visit me in prison. “Beg pardon?”

            Lifting the clipboard closer to his eyes, Broken Nose says, “Narcissa Malfoy.”

            After a moment, I pick up my jaw. “My—mother?”

            “That’s what it says.”

            My mother. I haven’t been in the same room with my mother in eight and a half years. She doesn’t leave the manor, save to—well, to visit my father in prison. It appears I’m carrying on a family tradition. Well—whatever gets her out of the house.

            “Sorry—did you say visitors, plural?”

            “Yeah.” He lifts the clipboard and fixes me with a look. “The other one is Harry Potter.”

            I stare at him. I stare at him a very long time.

            “Oh,” I finally say.

            “The judge told him this, and she wanted me to pass it along to you too—he might be famous in England, and yeah, we’re all real grateful that he saved the world, but he can’t just show up at the judge’s office asking for favours.”

            The colour drains from my face. “He didn’t.”

            “He surely did.”

            I put my hands to my face. Harry, you absolute imbecile. You egotistical, oblivious bastard—

            Bright red, I lower my hands and say, strained, “If you could convey my complete mortification, and my abject apologies—“

            “You can pass them on yourself. Your hearing’s in two hours.” He shakes the clipboard. “So who do you want to see first? You get one at a time.”

            Do I want to see my mother, who I slapped the last time we were in person together, or the man who recently broke my heart? What kind of lesser of two evils situation is this?

            Tossing up my hands, I say helplessly, “My mother, I suppose.”

            Nodding, the guard opens up the door, stepping outside. “Mrs. Malfoy?” he calls.

            Oh God. Here I was, all sanguine about my circumstances, and now my heart is pounding like mad. Well, only one thing to do about it.

            Standing up, I tuck my hair back. Giving my shirt a tug, I’m glad for the lack of wrinkles in this God awful fabric. No hiding my tattoos from her this time. I stand as tall as I can, my hands behind my back, as if I was receiving her in a parlour.

            When she steps around the corner, she takes my breath away. Father and I do not agree on much, but on this we will always believe the same: she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Her hair is completely white now, pulled over her shoulder, and she wears an exquisite dress of black and white stripes, with a dramatic collar to frame her face. I imagine she made some heads turn on Samatchin.

            She pauses at the sight of me, then steps completely inside. I don’t move at first. Broken Nose says, “You have half an hour,” and he shuts the door.

            We are alone.

            I smile slightly. “I apologize that I wasn’t able to greet you wearing those dress robes you bought me, but for some reason they weren’t keen on bringing them when I asked.”

            Mother crosses the room and sweeps me up in her arms.

            She smells like—she smells like home. I close my eyes, bending down to wrap my arms around her. I know where I am, and I know where I’m going, but I am so happy in this moment.

            Mother. My mother.

 

“These things on your arms are _preposterous_ ,” Mother says, and I laugh.

            Tilting my arms this way and that, I reply, “What, you don’t like them?”

            She has not let go of my hand once since we sat down, and I don’t intend to let go either. “I imagine once I have Jinjy break you out of jail, we shall have to get rid of them in order to more effectively disguise you.”

            Looking at her from under my brows, I say darkly, “Mother.”

            “For Merlin’s sake, Draco, you don’t believe I’m serious, do you? If I was planning on breaking you out of jail, I certainly wouldn’t say so when we were actually in one.”

            I know her too well to completely let my guard down. “Mother, promise me you’re not going to do anything to get that poor elf arrested.”

            She looks at me with her dark eyes, and smiles sadly. “I don’t know that there’s any escape from this situation, my darling.”

            “No. I don’t imagine there is.”

            Squeezing my hand, Mother says, “I’ve been by your flat, and I can _not_ get in. Apparently you have some kind of security system that keeps both me _and_ Jinjy out.” She purses her lips. “I can’t say I am much impressed by that.”

            “I’m not letting you into the apartment,” I respond. “If I did, you’d redecorate the whole place and in thirty years’ time I’d come home to find that there’s house elf heads atop all the cupboards.”

            “Where else would one put them?”

            “In the bin.”

            With mock scandal, Mother says, “How dreadfully disrespectful to those _poor elves_.”

            We smile at one another. Putting my other hand over hers, I say, “If I knew that all it would take to get you to come here was to be arrested, I would have done it years ago.”

            Mother studies my face, and I see the concern etching her eyes. “They say you’ve refused counsel.”

            “I have.”

            “Draco—that is very silly. I know you, you’re likely flagellating yourself, thinking about what you did to that muggle, but there’s no reason to completely throw your life away.”

            “I don’t regret what I did to him.”

            Mother blinks. “Do you not?”

            “Of course not. He’s a murdering bastard who would have killed one of my boys. I’m only sorry I couldn’t have made it last longer.” I roll my eyes. “For Christ’s sake, don’t tell me I sound like Father. That’s something I _don’t_ need to hear right now.”

            “No. I don’t think you sound like your father.”

            “Yes. Well, I imagine that’s a disappointment.”

            Mother’s brows furrow. “Draco,” she murmurs. “You must fight.”

            “I have fought. And whether I’m unashamed of my actions or not, there is no denying I broke the law. I cannot hold others to a standard that I won’t meet myself. I have to live with myself. This is my choice. There is no turning me from it.”

            “There _is_ ,” she insists. “You have made a life for yourself here. You are happy here. You cannot abandon that for some _ideal_. It is an admirable sentiment, yes, but naïve. You prove nothing by disappearing.”

            Perplexed, I say, “I don’t quite understand.”

            “What about anything I said was unclear? Sweetheart—I say some things to you because they are expected of me. They are the things I was taught to say. You cannot be so blind to think I believe them all.”

            “You can’t mean to say you’ve ever lied to me—“

            “This is the time to be serious, Draco. Much depends on it. _All_ depends on it. I cannot say that I was happy when you came to this place. I cannot say that I entirely understand why you did, or why you’ve stayed. Things you’ve said—and done—have hurt me terribly—“

            “Can we not? I’ve already done this with Father this week.”

            Shaking her head, Mother says, “What?”

            Sighing, I say, “I had a letter from him. I was…I thought that if I told him how I really felt, how things were, he’d listen. But that’s not the way this family works.”

            Mother does not speak at first. I really don’t want to hear whatever admonishments she has waiting for me. I’ll listen, of course. It is the last I imagine I will see my mother for a very long time.

            “No,” she says. “That is not how your _father_ works.”

            I turn to look at her.

            Mother adds her other hand to mine. “Your father—is unyielding. It is one of the things I love about him. It is one of the things that makes him a great man. Once he makes a decision, he almost never changes his mind. It takes remarkable strength for that. It is also his greatest weakness. Your father and I—we shared the same beliefs when we were young. I believed as he did, whole heartedly. You are probably sickened by those beliefs. I was not. There are still a number of things I feel are very sensible, and that will likely never change about me. However, unlike your father, I see the world—not as I want it to be, but as it is. I might pretend otherwise, and sometimes it even takes me a moment or two to catch pace, but I see the reality of things. And I act accordingly. I saw that the Dark Lord would fail, long before even his opponents realized it. I saw what the world would be, and it frightened me, but I did not wail and weep as some did. I saw that our line would end—and yes, I did wail and weep at that. But I adapted. I am not your father. I am not disappointed in you. How could I be?”

            She puts her hand to my face, and hers is the only hand ever as cold as mine. “I have acted to secure one thing, and one thing only, in this life. That is your safety. There were times, yes, when I thought I knew what was best for you, and when I was wrong. I am not infallible. I pretend so, in the face of our enemies, because I cannot stomach their scorn. They are not fit to judge me, or you, my darling, my child. I don’t always do the right thing, or say the right thing, but my love for you—even when I act in error, I do it from love of you. I wish you understood that.”

            I press my face further into her palm. “I can’t,” I say quietly. “I’m not a parent.”

            Mother studies me. “Is _that_ what he said to you?” She inhales. “Draco—it is true. There are some things you cannot know. That is merely fact. It does _not_ mean that you do not love. That you are not loved. By your friends. By your mother. By your children.” I look at her, my eyes wide. “Darling, you’re here because you saved one from death. There are many who would not do that for their own kin.” She shrugs lightly. “Would I prefer that you’d done it for a wizard? Yes.” I let out a laugh. “But you acted from love. The kind of love that someone unyielding would not understand.”

            I lean forward. I press my forehead against her sharp shoulder, closing my eyes. My mother. My mother has always loved me. She is not perfect, but no one is.

            “For a long time, yes—I was upset with you. Only I came to realize that you were born to this. You sought what all Malfoys, what all Blacks seek.”

            “Evil?” That gets me a quick smack to the ear. I sit back up, rubbing it. “Ow.”

            In consternation, Mother says, “Our family is not, by definition, evil.”

            “Tell that to the students at Hogwarts who are dealing with your sister.”

            “So you’ve heard about Bella.”

            “Unfortunately.”

            “I cannot say I was surprised. Her will—“ Mother smiles, impressed even now by her sister. “Was unparalleled.” Wrapping a hand around my wrist, Mother bends closer to me. “It is not evil we seek, my dear, or even the dark. What we seek is the forbidden.”

            Oh.

            “We have never been bound by convention. Laws—confinement—expectation. Morality. We make our own rules, and abide by them. Then one will come along and throw those aside and start anew. Other people—they call this evil. Immoral. Even perversion. And there are those who—have forgotten what it means to be a Malfoy. To be a Black. Your father has forgotten. For a time, I forgot as well. But you—“ She shakes her head, smiling with admiration. “Boundaries mean little to you. You’ve forged your own way. Regardless of what anyone has ever said. You suffered most when you did as you were told. We forced you to be something you weren’t. It almost killed you. We almost killed you. My darling, that is not a thing I can ever forgive myself for—“

            “Mother—“

            Her fingertips press against my lips. “Only you survived. And _flourished_. Disappointed? What nonsense. You are my son. You are a Malfoy. You are a Black, and you are mine.” She pulls my hands close to her, smiling. “Like the dragon, you will rise.”

            Bending her head, she kisses my hands.

            I am speechless. It is a rare occurrence. I would normally do as we always do—cover it with a jest. Some bon mot to disguise the emotion of the situation. This time, though—I don’t think I can.

            “You honour me,” I whisper. “Thank you, Mother.”

            She bows her head.

            Then she tilts it, looking at me from under her brows. “Speaking of the forbidden, my darling—“ She casts me a hard gaze. “Harry Potter?”

            I flush, and all I can offer is a sheepish shrug.

            Mother sighs. “It could be worse.”

            “How?”

            Turning on the bench, she links her arm through mine. “He could be American.” She gives me a look. “ _That_ would not be acceptable.” She glances down at my arm. “So. Which one of these repulsive things are for me?”

            I bite down on my grin, and I love my mother more than I thought possible.

 

When he walks through the door, I am ready with words. “Did you try to bribe a _judge_?” I snap.

            Harry pales. “No!” He turns, saying to the guard desperately, “I didn’t, that is not what happened—“

            “Thirty minutes,” Broken Nose says, and shuts the door.

            Pivoting, Harry gazes up at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. “I did _not_ ,” he seethes, “attempt to bribe a judge. I merely wanted to volunteer as a character witness—“

            “That’s not how the justice system here works, Harry—“

            “Well, you don’t have a bloody lawyer, so I had to do something, didn’t I?”

            “Not really.”

            Hands forming fists, Harry demands, “What the hell does that mean?”

            “It means—we are unaffiliated. You’re under no obligation to do anything.”

            His face falls, and he covers his eyes with his hands. “Right,” he mutters. “Right. I’ve made such a mess of—“

            I start waving my hands. “Oh no. I am, if you have not noticed, in a bit of trouble here, and I really don’t have the time to bear witness to your shame spiral—“

            Throwing his hands down, Harry says, “Too damn bad, because I’ve something to say, and it’s not like you can go anywhere!”

            He storms over to the bench, as much as one can storm across three feet, and drops down beside me, scowling something fierce, eyes looking like a tempest.

            “I fucked up, all right? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—there are so many ways for me to finish that sentence that it is actually painful. I shouldn’t have let you think I didn’t feel the way I do, I shouldn’t have left, I shouldn’t have let myself get scared off by what other people would think, and now there’s this absolute fucking disaster and maybe if I had done something different—“

            “No.”

            “I’m still talking—“

            “Well, before you continue, let me dispel something. Regardless of whether you were here or not, I would still be in this cell for casting the Cruciatus on a police office. I know you like to take the blame for everything onto yourself, but I’ve not the patience to let you cast yourself as a martyr in this situation. I was always going to end up here.” Crossing my arms, I gaze at the door, my legs crossed at the ankles. After a moment, I ask, “Is there not some miniscule part of you that feels vindicated? You were so convinced I hadn’t really changed. That I was always a monster under it all.”

            “Draco—“

            “Tell me there’s not a piece of eleven year old Harry Potter who feels the slightest bit of glee at my situation.”

            Brow furrowed, Harry looks at me, and says, “No. Not even a little. Not at all.”

            I shrug. “You’re better than me, then. Roles reversed, I would have enjoyed it at least a little.”

            “Draco.”

            “The papers in England. What do they say? Let me guess. ‘Malfoy Heir Crucios Muggle Police Officer, Proves Nation Right.’” I raise a brow at him. “How close am I?”

            “Fuck the papers,” Harry says.

            “So I’m dead on.”

            “I need to talk to you.”

            “You’re talking.”

            “Are you _listening_?”

            “It isn’t like I can outrun you right now, is it?”

            With a frustrated sigh, Harry says, “I messed this up, all right? I’ve been thinking it from the second you walked away from me at the airport, and I’ve been thinking of it every moment since, and when your mother called—“

            “Sorry—my mother called _you_?”

            “Yeah. She didn’t tell you?”

            Interesting. “No. She did not.”

            “When I found out what happened—about Us—“

            “He prefers Demetrius now. I think he’s growing up—“

            “Draco, stop trying to—I understand, I hurt you. I’ve hurt you terribly. I am sorry for that. I am trying to apologize to you, I am trying to make this right, but I can’t do this if you throw walls up around yourself. Maybe you think it doesn’t matter now, because you’re pissed at me or because you think you’re going to prison or both, but it _matters_. It matters to you, and it matters to me, and I need you to hear me.”

            With a sigh, I shake my head. “What do you want to say, then?”

            “That I miss you like the lungs have been pulled out of my fucking chest and I can’t breathe. I’ve been waiting twelve years to feel something, to want something, the way I used to, and you do that to me. You make no sense at a distance, but when you’re right there, you’re like the only thing that makes any sense at all. I got wrapped up in all this—shit, that’s held me back all these years, and I didn’t think about what was right, I just acted like a coward, and I can’t believe I did that. I like to think I’m brave, but I’m not brave when it comes to you. You have to drag me forward kicking and screaming, and you shouldn’t have to do that, but you make me feel so—out of control. You always have. You scare me. You do. You scare the pants off me. Just about the only thing more frightening than having you would be not having you. For a lot of years, I did what people told me, whether it was right for me or not, whether I wanted to or not, and when I stopped doing that, I was completely lost. I didn’t know what to do, because I didn’t know what the hell I wanted. I want you, you impossible, frustrating blond bastard.” Harry exhales in upset. “I’m trying to tell you I love you,” he says quietly.

            There it is. It sits between us as he leans against the wall, waiting to see what I’ll do.

            As if I ever really know.

            Arms still crossed, not even looking at him, I reply, “I feel it’s rather obvious that I love you in return.”

            “Do you really?”

            “Not that it matters,” I mutter, “considering the fact that I’m going to prison—“

            Startling me, Harry exclaims, “Of course it matters! You love me!”

            “Oh God, you’re not going to give me some positively Gryffindor nonsense about love conquering all, are you? Because I’ve not quite worked out how waste disposal works in this room, and I don’t want to puke.”

            “You love me,” Harry grins, getting onto his knees.

            I reach over, putting a hand to his chest before he can do something stupid, like lean over and kiss me. “And—it doesn’t matter,” I insist.

            “It absolutely does.”

            “I am going to prison. For torturing a man. I am not going to see the light of day for a long, long time. Those are just facts.”

            “Facts are, contrary to all logic and common sense: Draco Malfoy loves Harry Potter. And Harry Potter loves Draco Malfoy. If that can happen—all bets are off.”

            I smile slightly at his optimism. “It’s nice to see you like this again.”

            “Like what?”

            “Excited about something. Misplaced as it is.”

            Harry inches his knees closer to me, leaning against my hand. “You love me,” he murmurs. “You love me back.”

            “Harry.”

            “You love me back,” Harry whispers, as if it is the most precious thing in the world.

            How am I supposed to refuse him? When those beautiful eyes are so happy, and that mouth is curved into such a sweet smile. Only a hopeless case would refuse him.

            It would appear I’m not hopeless. I let him kiss me, and yes, it is perfect. He is perfect. Ludicrous and immature and reckless. And also completely perfect.

            He presses his forehead to mine, our noses lined up. His breath tickles my stubble. His warmth, as always, is addicting. There is a part of me that wants to tear a strip off him for leaving me in the first place, but our time is limited. That is not a battle that can be fought.

            Shaking my head slightly against his, I whisper, “I’m going to prison. What do you think you’ve won here?”

            And because he’s him, Harry says, “Doesn’t matter. We’ll figure that bit out when we get to it.”

            He’s mine. He’s a prat, and I’ll be gone soon. For now, though—he’s mine.

 

The door opens, and Broken Nose leads me through by the back of my arm. My hands are being held in a pair of smooth silver shackles that paralyze my hands. I’ve been told that attempting to apparate while in this contraption would result in utterly dire consequences. Not that I’ve considered it.

            Oh, who am I kidding. I’ve _absolutely_ considered it.

            The room is small and white, with a table in the middle. There is nothing on the walls, and only the one door. It is divided by a shield that shimmers slightly.

            Behind the shield sits a woman with several different piles of paper placed before her. She is at the far edge of middle age, with a few streaks of white working through her black hair. She would look formidable enough, but her black robes and heavy black-framed glasses certainly add to the impression.

            My wand sits on the table beside her wand.

            She doesn’t look up, continuing to write as Broken Nose sits me down across the table from her. He sets my shackled hands on the table, and they lock to something invisible. “Do I need to tell you not to do anything stupid?” he asks. I shake my head.

            “That will be all, Juniper,” the woman says, her voice faintly accented.

            I look up. ‘Juniper?’ I mouth.

            He frowns. ‘Draco,’ he mouths back, before leaving. Fair enough. I’m not exactly in a position to judge.

            After the door closes, I sit patiently. This is the last of the world I will see before Raczalock. I will take in every moment.

            My mother loves me. Harry loves me. My friends love me. My boys love me. And I love all of them. I will be brave for them.

            The woman sets down her pen—thank God, a witch who uses a pen—and folds her hands, casting her black eyes on me. “I am Judge Canales. I will be hearing your case. Let me assure you, these proceedings are being recorded, and you are being watched at all times, so do not do something foolish. Understood?”

            “Yes.”

            “Very good. I see you have refused counsel, which means you are going to make things very difficult or very easy for me. Let us see which it will be.” She takes one of the forms, picking up her pen and poising it above the paper. “Draco Lucius Malfoy, you have been charged with two counts of assault, one charge of compulsion, one charge of torment, and one charge of violating the 2nd Amendment. How do you plead to these charges?”

            “Guilty.”

            She looks up, not blinking. After a moment, Judge Canales says, “So you are going to make things easy for me.”

            “I’m guilty. I accept the consequences of my actions.”

            Nodding, she writes something down, then puts the paper aside, picking up another. “Very well.” She takes her wand, flicking at the shield, and it disappears. “Again, Mr. Malfoy, nothing foolish.”

            “No, ma’am.” 

            “I will require you to allow me access to your memories so that I can determine your sentence. Please relax.” She points her wand at me. A few seconds go by, and Judge Canales sighs. “I said to relax, Mr. Malfoy.”

            I’m practicing legilimens and not even realizing it. Maybe I always am. “Sorry—sorry, it’s automatic.” I close my eyes.

            Let down the walls.

            _I’ve shagged Harry Potter_.

            My eyes fly open, and Judge Canales tilts her head. “This is interesting,” she says, “but likely not relevant to our present endeavour.” No kidding. Twirling her wand, the judge says, “It is always the secret things that come to the front of our minds when another person steps inside. Do not worry. Close your eyes again, if it helps you.”

            I close my eyes, and God, hopefully I don’t think of every perverted thing I’ve done while this woman walks around through my memories. Like that time I let that criminology student put a dog collar on me—for _fuck’s sake_ , Draco, can we not?

            Think of the bad things. That’ll be easy to focus on while she looks around. Every bad thing. Hurling racial slurs at Granger. Telling Roderick that he was beyond saving. Sitting in the living room with Joanna an hour after the body was taken away. Seeing Evan in the snow—knowing what he’d tried to do. My father, telling me this was a thing we would never discuss again. The Dark Lord, sticking his wand against my skin and marking me as something abhorrent forever, for always. Walking out of my bedroom and seeing Harry standing at the counter, knowing his worry of others’ opinions was stronger than his affection for me. Cutting my mother’s face open. Hearing that Severus was dead. The dark place.

            I am in a dark place.

            “No, Mr. Malfoy, you’re not. Open your eyes, please.”

            I blink my eyes open. The lights in the room seem too bright, though I recognize that they’re probably normal. My vision swims slightly. It has been a long time since I let someone go wandering through my head. I don’t think I’d want to stand up right now.

            The judge is writing again. “Your guilty plea is accepted and entered into the record. Do you agree to proceed to sentencing?” She holds up a piece of paper.

            Still a bit wobbly, I say, “Yes.”

            Something checks itself off on the page, and my name appears beneath it. Judge Canales puts it aside, then pushes another pile of paper in front of herself.

            “Very well. After considering the evidence, of yourself and the other parties involved, I think five years of level one magic arrest will be good to start off with.” I open my mouth, and Judge Canales says, “Yes, I am going to explain what that is, Mr. Malfoy, seeing as you seem to have forgotten most of what you learned during your citizenship exam.”

            “I could still summon an eagle.”

            “Is this the time for humour?”

            “No, ma’am.”

            “You will be confined to only using level one spells, as defined by the 1964 Conference on Spell Staging.” She taps her wand in my direction, and the cuffs come off. She withdraws a silver bracelet from her robes, running her wand over it several times. “You’re cast with your right hand, yes?”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “Hold out your right arm, please.” I do, and she sends it over to me, using her wand. It fastens itself around my wrist, shrinking to fit perfectly without touching my skin. “Your probation officer will explain more—they will have many pamphlets for you, but to start, you will likely do little more than apparate for the next five years. Judging from your memories, this will probably not be a problem.”

            She didn’t say—did she say _probation_?         

            “Beg—pardon. Am I…not…going to….” I trail off, because her expression isn’t giving anything away.

            Crossing her arms on the table, Judge Canales gazes at me. “To Raczalock? No, Mr. Malfoy. I think that would be a waste of all our time, don’t you?”

            “Ah….”

            “Mr. Malfoy, what do you actually know about Raczalock?”

            “That it is in Utah. Beyond that, not very much.”

            “Raczalock is reserved for those who cannot or do not wish for rehabilitation. I send murderers to Raczalock. I send monsters to Raczalock. You are not a monster, only ill advised.”

            I’m not…I’m not going to prison.

            Again, I’m not…going to prison.

            How has this happened?

            “Most people look more pleased when they discover they’re not spending a decade on the salt flats.”

            “I’m pleased,” I say quickly. “I am very pleased. Only….”

            “Yes?”

            “Did I not just plead guilty to charges with names like torment?”

            “You did. Of course, I am not finished with my sentencing. We are merely getting started. May I continue?”

            I say, “Of course,” because what the fuck else can I say?

            “Five years magic arrest, I’m going to fine you—what are the conversion rates these days—“ She tilts her head, looking at something on a page. “Fifty thousand dollars to Officer Samuel Hansen, and two hundred thousand to Officer Waylon Lyman. Apparently he will need lifelong psychiatric care, despite the efforts of obliviation and our best healers. I could have gone considerably higher on that amount, Mr. Malfoy. I hope you appreciate that.”

            “I do.”

            “You are confined for the period of your magic arrest to the five boroughs, and as a registered magical felon, you will not be allowed to ever travel from the United States again. I hope you appreciate your American citizenship, Mr. Malfoy. You are now here for life.”

            “That is—“ In no way a problem whatsoever. “Acceptable.”

            I can tell from her eyes that she knows exactly what I am thinking. “You will also complete ten thousand hours of community service. Let’s see—“ Looking over her papers, she nods. “Let us put you in the Department of Regular Relations, shall we?”

            Regular Relations? I would be excellent at that.

            What the _fuck_ is going on?

            “Pardon me.”

            “Yes, Mr. Malfoy?”

            “All this seems very—very fair, and just. Only—I still feel that I am getting off—somewhat—easy?” I keep finding myself hedging my words around her. This woman makes me think of a combination of Professors McGonagall and Snape.

            Judge Canales looks at me like she is sizing me up, then she sets down her pen. “Mr. Malfoy. If you had obtained counsel—which I cannot stress enough, is a crucial part of these proceedings—she or he would have advised you to use the Young-McCallan Defense. Despite your being so eager to fall on your sword for your principles, I have taken that defense into consideration. I can tell by your face that you don’t know what this is, so I will tell you. When one is preventing a greater crime from happening, some excess of emotion is allowed, up to and including compulsion and torment. So long as the excess act does not pass two minutes, a person can have that taken into consideration during sentencing.” She arches a brow at me. “Your excess act lasted one minute and fifty seven seconds, Mr. Malfoy.”

            Ohh, that was close.

            “We are not as rigid as the courts in England. We have only the one unforgivable curse in this country, and that is murder. I have looked into the memories of Officer Lyman—shattered as his mind may be—and I have determined that he meant to murder that young man. He knew that he was unarmed. He would have told himself, would have convinced himself, that he was certain Demetrius Glenn had a weapon, but the truth is that Officer Lyman knew in that moment that Mr. Glenn was unarmed. You prevented a seventeen year old man from being killed by an officer of the law, who was acting in contradiction of every oath he had ever taken. I do not approve of your actions, Mr. Malfoy—though I appreciate that you are willing to take complete responsibility for them—but men like Lyman have no place on the streets of our city.” She gives her head a shake, and mutters, “Certainly not where our children are involved.”

            I’m not sure what to do or say, so I am still and quiet, and only give her a nod.

            “Of course—a conviction on compulsion or torment does have an automatic sentence.” She nods down at the table. “Destruction of your wand.”

            Ah.

            “Your sentence will begin January 1st, but in the meantime, to be on the safe side, I will take care of your wand. You will be unable to purchase a wand at any registered wandmaker in the United States. This is a lifetime ban. As I said, despite the list of spells that you can perform under a level one magic arrest, you will find that wandless magic is likely all that you will be able to cast. Seeing as you managed to hold a wandless shield charm for over a minute, I find myself slightly concerned, and encourage you not to exceed level one.”

            “Am I…not allowed to use a wand at all?” It shouldn’t be that difficult. It’s always been for comfort, not necessity.

            “You are. If you want to have a wand sent to you, that is your prerogative, but frankly, I would not want to buy a wand online. That is up to you, though.”

            “Yes. Yes, of course.”

            The judge picks up my wand, and without any fuss, points at it with her own. It snaps in half, a few green sparks bursting from the middle.

            “Any questions, Mr. Malfoy?” the judge asks.

            A thousand.

            “Just the one,” I reply.

 

Now here is a peculiar sight.

            My mother sits side by side with Harry. They are both on the same bench. Mother sits with her legs crossed at the ankle, hands in her lap. Her shoulders touch the wall as she sits perfectly straight, an expression of bored calm on her face. Harry, meanwhile, is hunched over, his knees spread. He’s almost manically twiddling his thumbs, jittering his leg. It must be driving my mother mad, but she makes no sign. She is contained, and he wears everything on the surface. It seems strange that I should love them both so deeply.       

            Adjusting my sweater over my arm, I drawl, “Why the long faces?”

            They look over, and about a second later, Harry has shot to his feet.

            “What happened?” he says in disbelief.

            “It would appear I’ve escaped the hand of justice a second time,” I say, watching as my mother cautiously gets up. She is not daring to hope. “The judge advised me that a third time, I would not be so lucky.”

            “ _Seriously_?”

            “I’ve a metric ton of community service to do, a number of other restrictions, but it could have certainly gone worse.” I give Mother a gentle smile. “It would appear you _won’t_ have to visit me in prison.”

            Her lower lip trembles. With a few quick steps, she meets me, wrapping her arms around my middle. I bend my head to rest it on top of hers. I hear her try to pull back a shaky little breath. I pat her awkwardly on the back with my closed right hand.

            Harry says, “Merlin’s beard—your wand.”

            Mother draws back, and I hold up the two pieces of my destroyed wand. “Yes, well—I _Crucio_ ’d a regular. You didn’t think I’d get off scot free, did you?”

            “Your third cousin, twice removed, was once married to a wandmaker,” Mother says. “I’m sure that we could—“

            “Mother,” I say, resting my forehead to hers. “I don’t need a wand. I’m quite content right now, and I don’t need to worry about what I don’t have.”

            She frowns, and tugs on my shirt. “Good _heavens_ , darling, what is this awful thing you’re wearing?”          

            I smile crookedly, then look over. Harry is shuffling his feet, uncertain. I’m still angry at him—I am plenty angry—but this is not the time for that. “Well? What are you doing over there?”

            He bites the side of his mouth, then walks over. I put an arm around him as he burrows close. Warm. Warm as always.

            I set my head against his as he mutters, “Nine bloody lives. That’s what you have.”

            “Oh, this has nothing to do with luck,” I say. “I’m a Malfoy, after all. Not like I was going to spend the rest of my days in _Utah_.”

            Snorting, Harry steps back, shaking his head in admiration. He holds onto the sleeve of the sweater hanging off my arm. I suppose he’s a little nervous about actually touching me in front of my mother. I’m a little nervous too.

            “You must want to go home,” Mother says. She runs her hands over my arm, looking at me like she can’t quite believe I’m real.

            I look at the pieces of wand in my hand. “Actually….”

 

When we come out on the platform, there’s the usual push to move us forward, to which Mother snaps, “Get your filthy hands _off_ me,” and that makes Harry chuckle.

            Once we get about five feet, though, the staring begins.

            Yes. I remember what this feels like.

            “Take Mother to the hotel please,” I tell Harry.

            Mother takes my hands. “I’ll go with you—“

            Bending down, I kiss her cheek. “I’ll be over in a few minutes. We’ll see about dinner.” I glance around here. “If they won’t serve us here, you might have to go out into the real world.”

            She rolls her eyes. “We have money, darling. They’ll serve us.” She turns to Harry. “Your arm, Mr. Potter.”

            He blinks, then smiles and offers it. “Mrs. Malfoy.” He catches my eye. They’re being casual for my sake, but I know they’re both concerned. “We’ll be waiting.”

            I smile slightly, then I turn and walk into the crowd.

            For the first time since I’ve come to Samatchin, the crowd parts for me. All around me, people go silent. They move away from me quickly. When they see who I am, their faces contract in fear or repulsion. It is not a thing I have had to confront for a very long time.

            But I am a Malfoy. Regardless, I walk with my head high, and a look on my face that says they’re basically all peasants.

            I manage to cross the street without anyone throwing something at me—a pleasant surprise—and I pause before the empty half circle that always surrounds Teseli’s. I can’t see anyone through the windows, though the sign is switched over to Open.

            Nothing for it. I open the door, and step inside.

            I think back to the very first time I walked through these doors. Twenty two. Terrified, after the stories people on the street told me when I asked for directions. Still unused to the noise, unused to my apartment, unused to America. I’d not used a wand in four years. Part of me wondered if I should even be here, if I deserved this. Most of me convinced that I didn’t. Then a voice said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

            I feel eyes on the back of my neck. I turn, and I see Teseli standing at the window.

            As she walks to me, I can see how her eyes burn with fury. Her mouth twists a touch, and whatever she has to say will not be friendly. Given the bullet I’ve dodged today, I feel fairly prepared for any blow she tries to land.

            Holding up the broken wand, I say, “This belongs to you.” I set the pieces down on a table, and put my hands behind my back.

            Standing in front of me, Teseli looks me over with disdain. “What a terrible disappointment you are,” she growls. “You choose _them_ over your own kind.”

            Somehow, I thought whatever she had would be worse. Honestly, this isn’t even an irritant.

            “The problem,” I say, “is not that I didn’t choose my own kind. It’s that you can’t see what my kind is.” I incline my head. “I wish you good fortune, Mistress.”

            She says something as I walk to the door, but I don’t listen. I’ve done what I had to. Perhaps, in the end, it’s not my mother that she was like, but another Malfoy.

            When I step outside, and shut the door, I prepare myself for another slog down the street with the eyes of the world glued to me in disgust and terror. There’s a newspaper stand just down the way that I see headlines on: ‘Regular Attacker Avoids Prison Time; Pro Regular Societies Plan Protest.’

            Well, at least I remain infamous.

            What I did not plan was for Harry to be standing here, his hands in his pockets as it begins to snow. Gryffindor scarf on. A flash goes off from the corner of my eyes, and I cast it a glare. A woman has a huge camera out about twenty feet away, aiming it at Harry. He gives me a ‘well, what am I going to do?’ kind of smile, and ignores her.

            “I asked you to show my mother to the hotel,” I say, adjusting my scarf.

            “Your mother is a grown woman, more than capable of looking after herself.” The flash goes off again, and Harry looks briefly towards the sky, inhaling. “Besides, you didn’t think we were going to leave you alone, do you? Your mother said I should come because I was more level headed.”

            “That would be a bloody first.”

            “She said that if anyone said a word to you, she’d _Avada Kedavra_ them. I’m rather—“ The flash goes off again. “Used to the attention.” Harry nods over his shoulder. “Shall we go back to the hotel?”

            I cross my arms. “No. No, we should—probably talk first.”

            After a moment, he says, “Here? Right now?”

            “No sense in waiting.”

            Harry shrugs, taking out his wand. “All right. _Circumcircio_.”

            A barrier goes up around us, shimmering. I can make out the shapes of people, but not their faces. Everything has been muted, like the volume turned down on a television set.

            Harry sticks his wand inside his coat. “Like I said, I’m average, but things that keep the press out, I’m quite good at. They’re being rather tame here, frankly.”

            “Legislation,” I say. “They have to keep twenty feet away from the subject of their photographs, and they’re only allowed to photograph you in the five magical districts in the city. I looked it up before you visited.”

            “Ah. Good to know.” Sticking his hands in his pockets, Harry winces. “You wanted to talk.”

            “Yes. But first, I’m going to tell you something, and it’s your turn to listen to me.”

            “Not sure I want to hear it, but fair’s fair.”

            “You are not an average wizard. You are still an extraordinary wizard.”

            Harry blinks, then flushes. “I don’t know about—“

            “But you’re lazy.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            “You weren’t a terrible Auror because you’d lost a piece of yourself. You were a terrible Auror because you were an awful student in most of your lessons, and you leaned heavily on the people around you to get you through. You had impossible responsibilities as a child, and so everyone gave you a lot of passes on things they shouldn’t have, like your basic education. You weren’t prepared to be an Auror, and you were traumatized from the war. You could have done more about the former, but you were an egotistical little berk who believed you were destined for greatness, and the latter, that was not your fault at all. Of course you were wounded by the war. We all were. You’ve never sought help for it, so of course you’ve had troubles. You’ve hid from the whole world for years. Of course you can’t do things the way you used to. You will always be Harry Potter. You will always be extraordinary, and I do love you. But I love you, against my better judgment, when you have some very glaring flaws that need attending to.”

            When I finish, Harry is pressing his lips together so hard that they start to pale. Tightly, he says, “Sweep me off my feet, why don’t you.”

            “If someone loves you, they don’t tell you want to hear. They tell you what they must.” Sighing, I kick at the ground. “Harry—“

            “Wait. I can hear what you’re going to say, and before you do, I need you to wait a moment.”

            “Why? You think you’re going to change my mind? Some big pronouncement? Some large gesture? I’m a realist. I know where this is headed.”

            “You always think you know, but you _don’t_.” Harry walks over to me, pulling something from his back pocket. “I made this for you.”

            He takes my hand, and puts the wand in it.

            Ten inches. It is some light grey wood, only it ripples under my grasp. When I hold it, it conforms perfectly to the shape of my fingers.

            “Do you want to know what an idiot I am? I’ve been working on it since July,” Harry says. “Even when I was still telling myself—telling you—that I hated you, I was coming up with this. I just had the idea, and I told myself it wasn’t _for_ anyone. Then I thought, well, maybe you just inspired me with the colour or something. I’ve been working on it nearly five months. Almost every day. Carving it, doing the spellwork—I had to go to Wales for the core.” He looks at me from under his brows. “Heart string of a Welsh green. Recently passed away, of course—no dragons were harmed in the making of this wand.” He goes back to chewing on his lip. “It wasn’t until after I came here the first time that I realized I was making it for you. I thought I was being stupid. You had a wand. A lovely wand, honestly. I thought about bringing it for you, when I came to visit, but that felt like I might as well just open up my chest and show you that your name was written all over my heart. So I didn’t. Should have, but I didn’t. Only I’m giving it to you now. I hope that counts for something.”

            It is humming in my hand. As I fold my fingers around it, I can hear dragon song.

            I loosen my hold. “You can’t just expect to give me something and think the reality of the situation will simply disappear,” I say quietly.

            “No. But does it help a little?”

            I shake my head. Harry. He never quits.

            “I should have been braver. I wasn’t. I’m sorry—“

            “Maybe you were just being realistic.”

            “Draco—“

            “It’s like you said—we don’t make sense.”

            “We make _perfect_ sense.”

            “You will always be the golden boy. No matter what you do, part of you will always belong to the world. And much as you deny it, part of you likes that.” He opens his mouth to deny it, and I say, “Part of you likes that. I will always be Draco Malfoy. Former Death Eater, and now the man who assaulted two muggle police officers. I’m not the man you want to be with. Christ, you probably don’t even want to be with a man, in the end—“

            At that, Harry gives his head a vicious shake. “Shut up, would you? Who are you to say that for me? You don’t get to say whether I end up with a man or a woman. Yes, I like women more than men, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like men. And I like you best. Don’t tell me who I end up with.”

            “Right. Of course not, that was incredibly rude—“

            I silence when he takes my hand. “Draco. I’m not a complete moron, despite what both of us have said, repeatedly, over the years. We are very different people, and our past is—very, very strange.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s positively mad, really. And maybe you’ll say that I don’t really know what I want, that I don’t know what’s going to happen and I’m just charging in the way I always do, and I’m not going to stand here and say that you’re completely wrong. I don’t know what will happen. And I am scared. But I want to be happy. I’m happiest when I’m with you.”

            “Harry,” I murmur.

            “Are you happiest when you’re with me?”

            Oh, don’t do this to me. Don’t, you infuriating….

            “Yes,” I admit.

            Harry threads his fingers through mine, stepping closer. “I can’t tell you I’ll get everything right. I can’t promise you happy ever after like in story books. I’m not even going to pretend that’s something I can offer. All I’m asking—is that we try.”

            “That is still asking a lot.”

            “Yes.” Harry bounces slightly, unable to push away his nervous energy. He’s gazing up at me with those dangerous green eyes, and it’s easy to remember why so few people have told this man _no_. “Draco, I want you to try. With me.”

            I close my eyes a moment.

            When I open them, I say, “I am amenable to that…but there are some things I would need that I don’t know if you could give. And that’s fine. If you can’t, and we can’t do this.”

            “Whatever you want—“

            “Stop it. No rushing without thinking.”

            Harry rolls his eyes, and says, “What are your conditions?”

            “I don’t want to date someone who’s not employed. It’s worrisome, and I find men without purpose unattractive.”

            Blinking, Harry says, “All right then.” I don’t imagine he was expecting something so concrete. “Well, I’ve been practicing in my shed for enough years. I don’t see why I couldn’t start selling my wands.”

            “And…the thing is…I can’t leave America again. I’m officially a felon. I am here until I die. I can’t come see you in England, and to be honest—I don’t fancy the idea of a long distance relationship.”

            Harry looks at me, then pulls back slightly. “You want me to move here,” he says levelly.

            Swallowing, I nod. “I do.”

            “That’s…a fairly large condition.”

            “I know it is. Only—I can’t stand to be away from you, you see. The thought of only having you for days at a time, and gone for weeks—I don’t think I could do that. I’m not saying that you’d move in with me or anything like that. You would get your own place, and we would date, like people are supposed to. We would have some stability to this thing. I know I’m asking you something impossible. Your family is all in England, and it’s your home but—you seem so happy when you’re here, and the press wouldn’t be after you all the time, and we could have a real go of it—“

            “All right,” Harry says.

            I pause. “All…right?”

            He nods. “Yeah. All right.”

            “Harry, is this you rushing in without thinking again?”

            “Possibly, but—I like it here. I mean—“ He gestures to the street around us. “Not _here_ , this place is bedlam, but the city—I like the city. Also, it has the advantage of being where you are. And I think I am more than overdue for a change.”

            Trying not to be too excited, I say, “If it doesn’t work out—you can always go back—“

            “Draco, for fuck’s sake, don’t think about the end before a thing has even begun.”

            “Right.” I’m shaken. I have a boyfriend. I have a boyfriend, and it’s _Harry_. How the fuck did that happen? Dazed, I say, “You’ll really come here—to be with me?”

            Nodding, Harry murmurs, “I’ll stay here, to be with you.” He grins crookedly. “Because I love you, Ferret Face.”

            Letting out a groan, I start to push him back. “Changed my mind, fuck off back to England—“

            He takes me by the lapels, standing tall to kiss me.

            Good God. I know that people can only see shapes through the barrier, but they’ll be able to tell what we’re doing, and that probably would explain the raise in murmurs—

            Oh, screw it. I wrap my arms around his neck, tangling my hand into his hair, and I taste the inside of his mouth and I fight to steal every last scrap of warmth from his body.

            The wand. Pulling away, I look at it in confusion. “Why does it keep _singing_ , Harry?”

            “It sings for you?” he asks, his arms around my waist.

            “Can’t you hear it?”

            Shaking his head, Harry says, “Nope. Must only sing for you.” He kisses the underside of my jaw. “It must like you.”

            Perplexed, I say, “When I got my wand from Ollivander, I had to try over twenty before I landed on one. With Teseli, it was at least two dozen. How in the hell did you make a wand just for me?”

            Harry looks at me as if I’m being amusing, which is remarkably obnoxious.

            “Because I know you,” he says.


	42. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, folks.  
> Thank you so much to everyone who has commented, left kudos, bookmarked the story, even just managed to get all the way to the end of this monster. You are all very much appreciated. If you want to come holler at me, you can find me at e-sebastian.tumblr.com.  
> So--let's see how it ends, shall we?

Oh good lord. Why in the fuck would my alarm be going off at—

            I remember.

            Eyes still shut, I reach out groggily for my phone. _Jesus_ —who the hell is behind me—

            I remember.

            Ow.

            “Make it stop or I’ll vanish the bloody thing,” slurs an unhappy voice.

            I crack my eyes open, snatching my phone off the ground. It’s the only light in the dark. Jamming my thumb against the button, I look at the screen. 3:30. It sure as hell feels like it.

            I fall onto my back a moment, cringing at the aches and pains that run all through my body. We’re on the ground. I said I’d try it, because we got home late, and there’s still no telling where the odds and ends are—including his mattress—scattered haphazardly through all the boxes still unpacked.

            Rolling onto my knees, I struggle upwards. Oh God. I am not a teenager anymore. I’m thirty, and I’m not sleeping on the hardwood again because _some_ people don’t know how to pack a house.

            Limping across the floor, I lean out into the hall, and turn on the light out there. It’s still too much, and I wrap my arms around myself, displeased.

            I look back at the ground. Harry is already back asleep, judging by the quiet snores starting to rise from the lump on the ground. Most nights we fall asleep wrapped up together, but when I wake he’s usually on his belly, face plowed into the pillow.

            “Harry,” I say.

            He continues to snore.

            Walking back to the blankets on the floor, I give his leg a sharp prod with my big toe. “ _Harry_.”

            He wakes suddenly, pushing himself up a few inches. “What’s happening?” he says, his hair sticking in every direction.

            “I’m not sleeping here again until you find your mattress.”

            It’s dark, but I get the distinct impression that he rolls his eyes before flopping back down. “Don’t be ridiculous. My apartment is nicer than yours.”

            Incensed, I say, “That is in no way accurate! I actually have furniture. I don’t have mountains of boxes that have shrunken dishes and books mashed all in together. I have a _bed_. What do you have?”

            He snores.

            Oh, I’m not having that. I reach down, grabbing the first thing I can find—a sock, his or mine I can’t tell. Balling it up, I throw it, and peg him directly on the head. “Potter!”

            “Ah! Merlin’s balls, Draco, what are you throwing things at me for? It’s the middle of the sodding night.”

            He sounds genuinely confused, almost hurt. I soften, a little. Suppose it’s not his fault I have to be up at three in the morning. Crouching, I say, “I’m sorry, but I mean it. I’m not sleeping on the floor again. At least promise me you’ll get an air mattress until you find the real one.”

            Yawning, Harry mumbles, “All right…what’s the spell for that?”

            This time, I roll my eyes. “Useless,” I mutter, standing up.

            My phone vibrates. ‘I’m here. Hes on me, feel it.’

            “Whoever that is, tell them to go away,” Harry says. “It’s the middle of the night. Oh—wait. I remember.” Rolling over, he pulls the blankets higher over his shoulder. “See? I’m a good boyfriend like that.”

            I’m about to throw something else at him when I remember that this man moved across an ocean for me. He left his friends, his family, everything he’s ever known, all to be with me. I chew on my lip a moment, studying the shape he makes under the blankets, and I remember how much I love him.

            Then he says, “Turn the lights off. I’m trying to sleep.”

            Apparently it’s going to be a day for eye rolls.

 

Demetrius is waiting for me on the basketball court, bundled up in an anorak with the hood up. He bought it after what happened last month. He says he’s cold all the time. I’m all for it—at last the teenage boy penchant for layers has found its appropriate season.

            “Hey man,” he says, getting off the bench. I can see the relief in his eyes. He’s been waiting for this. I’ve so much on my plate that this has had to only take up a portion of my attention. It’s been near the forefront, don’t get me wrong, and I’ll give it all I have, but life is busy at the moment.

            “Good morn—“ I’m stopped by a yawn. I put a hand in front of my face, bending a little with  the force of it. That makes my poor achy body fairly displeased.

            Demetrius pulls his head back. “Dude, can you do this?”

            “Of course I can. I just have an idiot boyfriend who doesn’t have a mattress, nor does he have a coffee maker. He likes tea, because he’s a fucking barbarian.” Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I say, “Can _you_ do this?”

            “God yes.”

            He looks worried, though, as he should. I don’t know if this will work. Honestly, I just don’t have any other ideas, but we need to do something.

            “Seen him this morning?” I ask, hands in my pocket. I’m colder than usual, but that’ll be because of how tired I am.

            “No. Like I told you, I saw him for a few seconds yesterday.” Demetrius taps the back of his neck. “It’s been building. For a week. I can feel it now.”

            Ignoring the temptation to look for the source, I nod. “Well—shall we?”

            “Uh.”

            I’ve not gotten more than a step. “What?”

            Demetrius makes a face. “I might have—I thought about it, and I don’t think I can do it.”

            I sigh. “Demetrius—we have to do something about him, or you’re going to spend the rest of your life—“

            “No, not _that_ that. We’re doing that.” Sticking his hands in his pockets, Demetrius says sheepishly, “I don’t think I can take care of the door.”

            Oh, for—

            “Did you not—repeatedly, I might say—assure me that you’d take care of the door situation? I can take care of the alarm—I hope—but you have to actually get us through the door—“

            “I know I—said that I knew how to pick a lock, but…Nines was gonna show me that, only we haven’t been tight since, you know, he shot you.”

            “If you had told me this, I could have worked something out. I could have worked out something with Ty, or Joshua—“

            “They would have asked too many questions. You know that. I thought you could just—“ He nods towards the center. “Magic that shit.”

            I throw up my hands in frustration. “ _Demetrius_! Did I not tell you, I can’t unlock any doors except my own residence using magic. It’s almost nearly at the top of the conditions of my probation. I try and _alohomora_ that door, and this—“ I shake the bracelet at him. “Lights up like a Christmas tree, and I get sent to Utah for a six month stretch. Would you want to be imprisoned in Utah for six months?”

            “No.”

            “No, you wouldn’t.” Wrapping my arms around myself, I shake my head. “Well. Fuck.”

            “You sure we can’t do it somewhere else?”

            “It said a place of great emotional distress. It’s this or the apartment, and I don’t imagine his mother letting us in for the purpose we intend.”

            “So…are we coming back tomorrow—“

            “Oh no. I have to put in my hours at seven tomorrow. I already have to be up for six, I’m not getting up at 3:30 again.”

            Demetrius looks at the building, then me. “So…what are we doing?”

            I take a deep breath, and pull out my phone. “Let’s see how far we get with this.”

            I have to call four times before it’s picked up.

            “What is _wrong_ with you,” Harry mumbles into the phone.

            Putting on a smile, turning away from Demetrius, I say, “Sweetheart.”

            “Oh no. No. You’ve never called me that before. Whatever it is, I’m going to hate it, aren’t I.”

            “Darling. Light of my life.”

            “Fuck yourself sideways, Malfoy. What do you want?”

            “Want to help me break into a building?”

            I wait a long while, wincing.

            Then Harry says, “Yeah, all right.”

 

He shows up ten minutes later, apparating onto the middle of the basketball court with a crack. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Demetrius says, startling at the noise.

            “Language,” I reply.

            Harry manages to just catch himself from falling in the snow. He’s gotten dressed, but he hasn’t touched his hair, and it looks like he stuck his finger in an electrical socket. Smiling cheerfully, I wave at him. He glares at me, and comes stalking across the court, drawing his wand.

            “I was _sleeping_ ,” Harry says, as though that’s the most important thing in the world. To him, it sometimes seems as though it is, given how jet lagged he’s been over the past month, going to and fro from New York to England.

            Lifting my hands, I say, “Can I say, you look lovely right now.”

            Unimpressed, he nods to my companion. “All right, Demetrius?”

            Demetrius nods back, trying to look like he’s completely used to men just popping out of nowhere. “Thanks for doing us a solid.”

            “Anything I can do to help.” He points his wand at the door. “ _Alohomora_.”

            It opens, and immediately the alarm sets off. Dodging inside, I put in my code. God, I hope they haven’t taken me out of the system—they haven’t. The alarm turns off.

            “Excellent!” I say. “Okay, go back to bed.”

            Mouth dropping, Harry says, “I beg your pardon?”

            “We’ve got it from here.”

            Demetrius waves at Harry. “Thanks, man. Hey, cool scar, bro.” He slips past me inside.

            Infuriated, Harry says, “I just apparated all the way from _Brooklyn_ , and it was just to be a locksmith—“

            Dodging forward, I give him a quick kiss on the side of the mouth. “A very attractive locksmith. I’ll see you after work, to look at the shop space.”           

            “You must be kidding me—“

            “Go back to sleep! Love you, bye.” I close the door behind myself, and go to catch up with Demetrius.

            After a second, he shakes his head. “That man better be getting blown tonight, that’s all I’m saying.”

            I almost trip off my feet. Clapping my hands over my ears, I protest, “Jesus fucking Christ! Don’t ever—good _God_ , don’t ever say anything like that to me. Fucking hell.”

            “Language,” Demetrius says.

 

Every few minutes, I’ll look up from my spellwork to check on Demetrius. He certainly doesn’t look comfortable. I don’t imagine that he would be. It’s not exactly my favourite place to be either, and it looks fairly eerie right now.

            The room is glowing with charms. The desk and chairs have all been pushed off to the side, and there’s a big circle lighting up the floor. Demetrius is sitting in it, and he’s positively smothered in protection charms. I’ve covered the windows, so that people don’t think we’re sacrificing a goat in here or something.

            I mean, if a goat had been required, we would have done that. But it wasn’t, so a goat somewhere goes on to live another day.

            Every so often, I need to take a breather. I’m starting to sweat with the effort of keeping all this magic going. Bending, I brace my hand on my thigh. My beautiful wand is singing softly in my other hand.

            “You okay?”

            Looking over, I smile. “It’s five in the morning and we’re about to commune with the dead. I’m splendid.”

            Demetrius smiles.

            He’s been okay this past month. I admit, I was rather concerned that he wouldn’t want to see much of me after the incident. Lyman isn’t exactly someone I’d expect Demetrius to have any sympathy for—the man tried to murder him, after all—but I worried that seeing me hurt somebody the way I did would alter our relationship in a way that couldn’t be repaired.

            It seems to have done the opposite. When I got my phone back, amongst the near hundred messages waiting for me, about a quarter of them were from Demetrius, asking if I was okay. Asking what he could do. How he could help. He was the first person I got back to, actually. Before even Jason and Derrell. I needed to know that he was all right.

            He wasn’t—any seventeen year old who’s nearly shot to death by two police officers who actually is all right needs to have their head examined—but he didn’t hate me, and I was glad for it. The first time I saw him after, he just hugged me and said, “I’ll never forget what you did for me. Not ever.”

            I cried. Everything that happened, I managed to keep completely dry eyes for everyone. Except, of course, the seventeen year old. Brilliant, Draco. That was well played. I think it was just that I had my hands on him, that I could feel he was there and real and _alive_. It shocked the hell out of him, but he was as nice as a straight teenager could be. He shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot, and finally said, “You want a tissue or something?”

            “What if this doesn’t work?”

            I straighten, shoving my hair back from my face. Lifting my wand once more, I say, “We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”

            “So there’s no plan B.”

            “My plan A is usually fairly pristine.”

            Demetrius mutters, “I’ll remember that when Casper the Unfriendly Ghost strangles me in my sleep.”

            Across the room, a pencil rolls across the desk, and drops to the floor.

            We look at it, then I glare at Demetrius. Grimacing, he mouths, ‘Sorry.’ I shake my head and go back to work. Children.

            It’s going to be a long day. If I’m lucky and we don’t end up hospitalized—we won’t, that’s not an option—I’ll rush home and catch maybe three hours kip. Then I have eight hours at the shop. After, I’m going with Harry to look at a possible location for his shop, over on Staten Island. Apparently Muriel Lane is nowhere near as mad as Samatchin. I’ve never been, but I suppose things will pick up a little if Harry sets up business there.

            Then back to my place—not his, I’m not sleeping on the ground again—and sleep. Then I have to put in three hours at the Department of Regular Relations. I actually quite like it there. Other than my supervisor. Erich is an utter nightmare. One of those American purebloods who only know about regulars in the abstract, who think they’re unique creatures to be coddled and fetishized. A real Arthur Weasley type. He’s given me the supposedly terrible task of digitizing all the old records, but it’s actually quite simple. With my determination, and the fact that I’ve actually used a computer, unlike some of the people being paid to work there, it can certainly be accomplished.  

            They only had me scheduled to come in six hours a week, but at that rate I would be there thirty years. So I tend to go in every morning at seven, do three hours if it’s a work day. If it’s not, I put in twelve. Harry seems to think it’s important that I take at least one full day off a week, but he’s lazy, so I don’t know if I believe him. At this rate, I’ll be done my time in seven and a half years. I feel like that’s manageable.

            And I do like the other people there. They were a bit horrified by me at first—I’m known as a violent criminal who attacked regular police officers—but the first day, I stood in the middle of the room, sick of all the looks they were giving me, and said, “For the record, I attacked a regular who was trying to murder a seventeen year old regular boy. If anyone has a problem with that—keep it to yourself and stop staring.” After that, they came around. They’re quite nice, actually. Eccentric, for the most part, but Kayleen and I could chat for days about places to eat in Williamsburg, and Edgar is a magnificent bitch who knows all the gossip, so we get on very well. I’ve been thinking, maybe in a few weeks, if it’s not too strange, I’ll ask them if they want to come over for dinner some night.

            I like the work they’re doing there too. I’ve actually been thinking—maybe that’s a field I’d like to go into. It’s only a notion right now. There’s a program for it, at Crowley University—

            Ah. It would seem I’m finished.

            Stepping back, I look over my work. Scratching my head, I ask Demetrius, “What do you think?”

            He points to under the windows. “That’s missing a bit.” I automatically look, and Demetrius says, “How the hell would I know? Do I look like a damn wizard?”

            Clever little bastard. With a sigh, I walk over to the circle. I take a seat, so that we’re staggered. We’re like two sides of a triangle, only we’re missing the other side.

            “Ready?” I ask.

            “Born ready,” Demetrius lies.

            “Me too,” I lie, and raise my wand. “ _Revelio_.”

            The whole room shimmers. Around us, the echoes of people move. I can see years pass before my eyes. I see Roderick and Ty laughing for a moment, silver strands suggesting their silhouettes, but I would know them anywhere. I see Enrique, my first lost boy, and Victor darts past. Derrell walks by the board, and so do I, only a much younger me, with long, flat hair, my head bowed.

            Everyone is in motion—save one. In the corner, a boy stands. He has silver blue eyes, his hair falling over his forehead, and his hands are stuffed deep into his pockets. He becomes more apparent as the others move and he doesn’t, simply staring at us.

            Swirling my wand from left to right, I do away with all the echoes. It is just myself, Demetrius, and the ghost.

            Pointing to the place that’s waiting for him on the side of the circle, I say calmly, “Evan, come sit down.”

            For a moment, he does nothing. Then he walks forward, staring at Demetrius the entire time. His gaze does not falter as he sits.

            Demetrius is trying not to look scared, and mostly succeeding. He just has to not run. He does that, and this could go on forever.

            “You killed me,” Evan says.

            “No,” I reply. “Evan, you killed yourself.”

            He turns his head. He floats slightly above the floor, unable to make contact. “That’s not how it happened.”

            “Yes. Don’t you remember?”

            He tilts his head, gazing through me. “He killed me.”

            “No. He embarrassed you. He did not kill you.”

            “You…were supposed to save me.”

            I shake my head. “No. I was supposed to help you save yourself. You chose not to save yourself. Do you remember?”

            “No.”

            Demetrius clears his throat. “Evan—“ The ghost’s eyes snap to his face. Demetrius swallows, then says, “Evan—I didn’t kill you. I did something shitty to you—something stupid, and fucked up, and really, really shitty. But I didn’t kill you.”

            “You did.”

            “No,” I say. “He didn’t. Do you remember that night?”

            The ghost floats there impassively. It is hard to tell from his face what he might be feeling.

            “I...was waiting. Until…she fell asleep.”

            “That’s right,” I say. “You waited until she fell asleep.”

            He stares at the ground a moment. Evan shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. He wanted me to hurt myself. He wanted this to happen—“

            “I _didn’t_ ,” Demetrius insists. “I didn’t. I don’t know what I wanted, but it sure as hell wasn’t you hurting yourself. It wasn’t you _dying_. You’re my friend.”

            Light begins to curl off the ghost. “You,” he growls, “are _not_ my friend—“

            “Evan,” I warn. “No more. You need to calm down.”

            “He killed me.”

            “He didn’t. You know he didn’t. Evan, why did you make him leave the house last month? Why did you do that?”

            “Because he deserved it. He killed me, and he deserves to die too—“

            I snap my fingers off to the side, startling the ghost. “ _None_ of that,” I say in my firmest voice. “You will not say that. That’s not the kind of person you are. Is it?”

            The ghost looks confused. “I—I’m not sure—“

            “You’re going to apologize to one another, and we’re going to take care of this situation once and for all. Am I understood?” The ghost looks at me, uncomprehending. Glancing at Demetrius, I say, “You first.”

            He takes a deep breath. “Evan. I’m so, so sorry for what I did. I can’t believe I…sending those texts…telling people…that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. I know it was wrong, and if I could take it back, man, I would. I want to take it back so bad. You’re my friend. I don’t know if you remember, but you’re my friend. I really liked that…you never made fun of me for my Legos. You listened to me talk about them. You listened to me talk about a lot of stuff. Do you remember any of that?”

            The ghost says nothing for a few moments. “Eiffel Tower?” he asks slowly.

            “Yeah. Yeah, man, you helped me make the Eiffel Tower. You’re really good at that stuff. Or—or you were—“ Demetrius glances at me a bit helplessly. I nod him on. “You were really good at that stuff, man. You were really cool. I wish I’d been a better friend. And I’m sorry. I wish you weren’t dead. But you are. And I’m sorry about that too.”

            I look at the ghost. “Evan. Your turn.”

            The ghost balks. “No—“

            “Young man,” I snap, “that was not a suggestion. You nearly killed Demetrius, now you’re going to apologize. You’ve also scared the hell out of his grandmother, which is not a very kind thing to do either, so you’re going to apologize for that as well. Now, Evan.”

            He hesitates. He’s not quite in this world, but he’s not quite gone either.

            “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “About…trying to kill you.” He shrugs, hunching, and starting to look more like the boy we knew. “I’m…really sorry about your gramma. I didn’t think about that.”

            “It’s cool,” Demetrius says quietly. “She’s tough. She knows you’re upset.”

            “So you accept his apology?” I ask.

            Demetrius nods. “Yeah, of course I do.”

            “Evan? Do you accept Us’ apology?”

            The ghost says nothing, staring at the floor.

            “Evan. You’ve both apologized, and he’s been very gracious about you trying to kill him. It’s time for you to accept his apology as well.”

            “What if…what if I don’t?”

            “Then the only person you hurt is yourself. Demetrius is alive. He’s going to continue living, and there isn’t anything you can do to stop that. And one day, when he dies too, he’s going to a place that’s what he deserves, and that place will be beautiful. If you don’t forgive him, you’re going to be stuck here. You’ll be alone. You’ll always be alone. I don’t think you want that.” Leaning forward, I say gently, “Evan, it’s time to forgive him.”

            I would swear the ghost is chewing on his non-existent lip. After a very, very long moment, the ghost says, barely above a whisper, “I forgive you.”

            We all wait.

            Nothing happens.

            Furrowing my brow, I study Evan. “What else is keeping you here? Is it me? Do you need me to apologize as well? Because I am sorry, Evan. I can’t tell you enough times how sorry I am.”

            Shrugging, Evan says, “No. It’s okay. I know you tried.”

            My lip is trembling. Stop that. It’s not the time. “Is it your mother? Because she doesn’t want this for you. She wouldn’t want you stuck here. Not like this.”

            “No. Sometimes…I watch her. I think that…hurts her. I don’t want to hurt her anymore.”

            “Then what is it? Do you know what’s holding you here?” He’s making himself smaller. I remember watching him do that. He knows, only he doesn’t want to say.  “Are you scared of what comes next?”

            His face twitches.

            “Evan—“

            “You said…you said it was dark. You said it was worse than…anything I could imagine.” He shakes his head, fear creeping into his voice. “I don’t want to go there. Please don’t make me go there.”

            Oh dear.

            I put down my wand, and Demetrius makes a sound. He gives me a look that clearly says, ‘Pick that thing back _up_.’ I give my head a shake, and I look at Evan.

            “When I died,” I tell him, “I went to a dark place. That’s where I went, and I was scared that it would be where you went. But I don’t think that’s where you’re going. We get what we deserve. When I was your age, I deserved a dark place. You, though—you don’t deserve that. The only person you hurt was yourself. You tried to hurt Us, but you apologized, and he’s forgiven you. You don’t have to worry about that. You’re forgiven. The people who love you forgive you, and that’s what matters. You don’t need to be scared of what comes next. What’s really frightening would be to stay here and never leave. That’s not what you deserve. It’s time to go on.”

            “Are…you sure?”

            “About which bit?”

            “If I…go…will I not go to the dark place?”

            I smile. “No.”

            “You promise?”

            “Evan. Do I lie to you?”

            He looks at me, and then he says, “You’re the one who doesn’t lie to me.”

            “That’s right. It’s okay. We’ll stay with you while you go.”

            He looks between us. Demetrius—bless him—gives Evan a thumbs up. Evan smiles slightly at that.

            He goes.

            Little pieces of light fall away, almost crumbling. He closes his eyes, and inch by inch he falls apart. I watch, and my heart aches for him. Evan. My lost boy. I have lost boys before, but he will always hurt the most. This I know.

            Like a sigh, the last of him lets go, and the light of him fades into nothingness.

            It is better than I expected, and so much harder than I ever imagined.

            Demetrius says, “Is he—“

            I hold up a hand, giving him a warning look. He looks around, brows raised.

            Abrupt as a candle being blown out, all the light from my spell work disappears, and plunges us into absolute darkness. I can feel the spells break. Their purpose is complete.

            Somewhere in the black, Demetrius says, “Is he gone?”

            Reaching out, I find my wand. “ _Lumos_.” Once I can see Demetrius, I nod. “He’s gone. For good this time.”

            “Dre? What you said—was it true? Is he not going to—the dark place, whatever that is?”

            I push myself to my feet. “I don’t know. But he couldn’t stay here.” I look around, and take a deep breath. “I hope he’s going someplace good.”

            After a few seconds, Demetrius says, “You know, my life was normal before I met you.”

           

Once we’re outside, Demetrius turns and gives me a hug. “Well—thanks for whatever that was.”

            I pat his back. “You as well.”

            Stepping away, he zips his coat up a bit more. “I’m tired.”

            “No kidding.” Traffic is starting to pick up a little, in that there’s actually vehicles on the street now. Probably still two hours until sunrise, though. Sleep or coffee. That’ll be the question. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

            “That’s real gentlemanly of you, but I think I can manage.” I can’t help but worry. I lose this boy now, after all we’ve been through, and I think I might break the universe. Demetrius doesn’t help matters by saying as he turns away, “I’ll do my best not to get shot.”

            With a frustrated sigh, I say, “That was unnecessary.” Watching him walk away from me, I think of all my boys that have come and gone over the years. All our stories. All that time. “Demetrius?”

            He looks back, about fifteen feet from me.

            “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I ask.

            He grins, and it is a classic Demetrius Glenn grin. Confidence and sass and charisma incarnate. “Something,” he replies. “You?”

            I shrug. “Something,” I agree.

            Nodding, he puts up his hood, and walks away.

            And that’s one thing off my list.

            Because there’s always a list. My life, admittedly, is a disaster waiting to happen at any moment. I’m a wizard who lives among regulars, a man known for his honesty who lies to everyone around him. I’m a man who was a terrible person once, who tries to be better, and doesn’t always succeed. At any moment, I have my hands on seemingly innumerable strands that could go flying from my grasp.

            Leanna’s starting to talk about opening her own shop, and Jason’s getting worried about an insurrection. He’ll bloody have one on his hands, and I’ll lead the charge, if he doesn’t stop his murmurings about bringing Freddy back. Harry and I will have dinner with him and Alex on Saturday, and it’s the first time we’ll be going over to another couple’s to have dinner, and I’m nervous about it because I still don’t quite know how to be a couple. I’ll have to figure it out, because Derrell’s getting along famously with that professor of Ty’s, and he’s said that he wants the four of us to go out some night. Meanwhile, Rodrigo’s sister Helena has just moved to town, and I think she might be rather perfect for Ty, only I’m not sure how to go about making that happen, only I’m fairly certain I will. I promised him that I’d show him techniques for making fundraising calls, and I still have yet to write down the instructions I wanted to make for him. I still have the boys texting or calling several nights a week, and I listen and I sigh and I laugh and I do what I can for them. I’m warding off Joshua, who’s making noise about me coming back to work at the center. Only I’ve the shop, and the work at the DRR, and I’ve plenty of ideas about reorganizing their records system before I get too deep in, but I need to ingratiate myself first before they’ll let me get away with anything like that. And I’ve got that meeting with my infuriating probation officer on Friday, which is always a joy.

            And I’ve got my lovely mother, who’s trying to open negotiations for convincing me to visit my father.

            And there’s Mistress Teseli, who sent me a letter I’ve yet to open.

            And Dustin Moreno, who blew a hole through my bathroom wall this week.

            And. And, and, and.

            Story of my life, really.

            One thing at a time. That’s the only way to get through.

            Someone’s watching me. I can feel it. Raising my head, I turn, and find the source. Across the basketball court, Harry’s sitting on the bench, holding two cups, and waiting on me. When he sees me looking, he beams.

            Harry. Impossible, maddening, wonderful Harry. Who shouldn’t work, but does. Who shouldn’t be mine, but is. Who I love, who’s here, who’s my past, my present, and my future.

            I walk across the court to meet him. He’s obviously been home, because his hair is done, styled over his scar. He’s wearing his new glasses, the ones with the gold frames that make his skin glow and his eyes look even more vividly green. He holds two cups, one considerably larger than the other, and I know the larger one is mine.

            When I’m close enough, I call to him, “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

            Lifting the cups, Harry says grandly, “Like the dragon, I rise.”

            I smile. Indeed.


End file.
